


Midnight

by tfm



Series: A Day in the Life [1]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Case Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-08
Updated: 2009-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-07 08:12:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tfm/pseuds/tfm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captured by a torturous unsub, three agents must rely on their strength and the strength of their friendship if they are to survive the ordeal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ten Minutes to Midnight

Midnight

**Chapter One**

Ten Minutes to Midnight

*             *             *

_Prosperity makes friends, adversity tries them._

**Publilius Syrus** __

*             *             *

It starts with death, and it ends with death. It’s cold out – nearing zero degrees. The blizzards haven’t come yet, but when the high-pressure system meets the low-pressure system, there will be a whiteout, the likes of which haven’t been seen in decades. The news describes it as one of the worst winters to hit the United States since 1888. While the snow hasn’t quite reached 50 inches, you wouldn’t know that from looking outside. A blanket of white covers the world.

He’s in a house not far from one of the major interstates. He’s so tired, so hungry that he can’t even remember which interstate. Can’t remember who he is, where he was going. All he knows is that his body is failing; that he is going to die in this house, a captive of this strange man who seems to take pleasure in causing him pain.

The room is relatively Spartan. There is a hard bed, with a thinning blanket, a few rags, a bucket that was once empty, and a cask of water that is down to its final drops. For eleven days, he has been experiencing inanition; catabolysis, atrophy of the stomach, fatigue and apathy. After ten days of torture, the strange man had left him locked in this room, willing to let nature take its course. For two days, he has been lying on the bed, too weak to move, too weak to think. The thin blanket has been stained by stool, the result of the diseases that ravished his body due to vitamin deficiency.

It’s almost ten minutes to midnight; a doomsday clock of this particular man’s life. When it strikes midnight, he will be gone from this world forever; the imprint of his soul in this life was so insignificant that he will barely be remembered. All that is left of this man is wasting skeleton on a soiled mattress in a house in the middle of nowhere.

*             *             *

Not half a world away, it is still ten minutes to midnight. Ten minutes to midnight on New Year’s Eve, no less. The usually spotless condominium is uncharacteristically disorderly, though that is only in comparison to its original state. Empty bottles and used glasses are line up neatly next to the sink. Half a dozen bowls of snacks are out, each at varying levels of consumption. A soft rock number is pumped out by the stereo, its highs not far from being drowned out by the voices of those that are listening to it. This isn’t your average New Year’s Eve party.

But then, these aren’t average people.

They are the people that keep you safe at night. They are the people who slaughter evil, who keep the monsters at bay. They are the ones that have put their job above almost everything; above friends, above family. But they’ve made their own family.

They’re laughing, smiling. They find it nice, once in a while, to pull away from the horrors of the job, but they all know they could never leave it permanently. This is not just about their obligations to victims, to families, but about their obligations to themselves, to each other.

‘All I’m saying is that playing chess on New Year’s Eve is a bit…’ Morgan struggles for an appropriate word. He is clad in his usual jeans and tight t-shirt. Garcia is holding onto him as they sway gently to the music.

‘Lame?’ supplies JJ. She’s curled up next to Will, Henry asleep in the bassinette before them.

‘Exactly the word I was looking for,’ grins Morgan. He continues to watch his two colleagues, still engrossed in their game.

‘Chess is a commonly used tool to aid in the intellectual development of the adolescent mind,’ Reid says absent-mindedly. He’s almost entirely focused on the board in front of him. He knows that knowledge and verbal ability are essential for expertise. He knows that perception is more important than anticipation. He knows that his eidetic memory should give him a clear advantage, and yet he cannot figure out why Emily Prentiss keeps beating him. To add insult to injury, she is at least three times as inebriated as he is.

He brushes his knuckle against a knight. He knows he can take her rook, but it leaves his queen wide open.

‘I don’t think you needed any help with intellectual development, kiddo,’ laughs Rossi from the couch. He’s watching them with interest, though he appears to be attracted more by their body language than the game itself. He sees Emily loosen slightly as Reid makes his move. ‘You’re screwed,’ he concludes.

‘Wait, what?’ He looks at Rossi, and then back at the board, where Emily is moving her own piece forward.

‘Checkmate,’ she announces. There’s the slightest hint of a slur in her voice. Reid stares at the scene incredulously. It was bad enough that he had rarely beat Gideon. He would risk his reputation as the resident genius if he lost another game.

‘How do you do that?’ he asks, and she winks at him.

‘What’s that phrase?’ she prompts him. ‘A magician never reveals their secrets.’ It’s a topical analogy; not three days ago, he refused to reveal to her how her watch had somehow appeared in the break-room fridge. She had smiled at him insidiously as she strapped the expensive timepiece back onto her wrist, as though she already had a particular revenge in mind. He will remain vigilant; somehow, he thinks that beating him at chess isn’t the most creative retribution she can think of.

‘Nine minutes,’ Garcia informs them, as she removes Morgan’s hand from her waist to check his watch. She’s been counting down the minutes since half-past eleven.

‘Another game?’ Emily asks the question with a raised eyebrow. She already knows that he is going to decline. It doesn’t take a profiler, though having the skill helps. Over the years, the team has come to know each other’s character traits, their strengths, their weaknesses. An inevitable side effect of spending so much time together.

‘No thanks. I’ll keep my dignity.’ He gets up, goes to get another drink. The red wine curls delicately into his glass; at this point he’s still mostly sober, able to appreciate the taste of the wine rather than the buzz it gives him.

Emily packs away the chess board, rolling her eyes at Morgan’s amusement. The board is one her grandfather gave her, hand-carved bone pieces, packed away in a box of rosewood and silken velvet. She has lost count of how many games she has played on that set. On her return from setting the box beside the mantelpiece, she is intercepted by Morgan. Garcia has excused herself to the bathroom, and he is left without a dance partner.

‘You sure you want to dance with a nerd?’ she teases him. Her hair hangs loosely, with a kick that is unseen during the professional hours. It brushes lightly against her bare shoulders and the spaghetti-thin straps. The condo is heated, so jackets and coats are free from the constraints of limbs.

‘I am _surrounded_ by nerds every day,’ he reasons. ‘Just one dance isn’t going to hurt.’ He moves with a fluidity that is untempered by the alcohol in his blood. Tonight, “smooth moves” has a literal meaning as well as figurative one.

Upon his return from the kitchen, Reid takes a seat beside JJ. With some pride, he notices that she’s wearing the butterfly necklace he bought her for Christmas. After he has garnered the proud parents’ permission, he leans forward to tickle Henry’s stomach. Though in the arms of the sandman, the infant gives a sound of contentment.

‘He’s almost a month old, now, right?’ Though he’s phrasing it as a question, he knows the exact date, the exact time that Henry LaMontagne was born. Even if he had been born without the ability to process such vast amounts of information, he would have remembered that day for the rest of his life.

‘Almost,’ smiles JJ.

‘Six minutes,’ Garcia calls out as she joins the throng. She gives Emily a look of mock jealousy before sitting down next to Hotch. The Unit Chief has been stoic all night, but even his long built up mask cannot hide the pleasure that he’s feeling. His lips twitch, and anyone watching his face would have – for just half a second – seen a smile.

His bounds do not quite extend to drinking, though. If a case were to come up, if they were to be called away urgently, he’s ready. Apart from him, Reid and JJ are probably the only ones capable of driving.

Their enjoyment continues for just under six minutes. The countdown is beginning on the muted television when JJ’s phone begins to ring.

Seven bodies tense.

_10 seconds_.

‘Yes, I did get your email…’

_7 seconds._

‘Sherriff, there’s a very large pile of cases awaiting review…’

_4 seconds._

‘…’

_2 seconds_.

‘…and you’re only just discovering this now?’

_Midnight._

The team has stopped paying attention to the countdown. They are oblivious to the muted cries from adjacent residences. All eyes are on JJ.

‘Of course. We’ll be there as soon as possible.’ She hangs up.

‘We’ve got a case.’ No-one is surprised by this fact, yet neither are they disappointed. All that remains is the key questions: Who, What and Where.

‘Keyser, West Virginia. Two bodies have been dumped there in the last two months; showed signs of starvation and torture. I’ve just been informed of a possible third victim who went missing_ eleven_ days ago.’

‘It’s not an ideal time for an investigation,’ remarked Hotch. He was staring out the window – not at the expanse of festivities, but at the falling snow. While it was soft now, it would be heavier by the morning. If they were to leave, they had to leave now.

‘It never is,’ was all JJ said. There was a sudden flurry of movement. The party was over. They moved the half-finished food and drinks into the kitchen, cleaned up what little mess was left over.

‘There’ll be massive flight delays in this weather,’ remarks Rossi. ‘Even with a private jet.’

‘It isn’t far,’ rationalizes Hotch. ‘We could drive there before the blizzards kick in.’ That suggestion sits best with everyone, but it means they must leave immediately; if they were to leave it any longer, then their drive would be delayed by drunken partygoers attempting to find a way home.

‘Can we run an investigation in the middle of a blizzard?’ Emily asks. She’s not perturbed by the weather, she’s just curious. She’s waiting for the go-ahead to grab her ready bag from upstairs.

‘We can run an investigation in any weather,’ Morgan says confidently. He’s already at the door, car keys in hand. He hands the keys to Reid as the young profiler joins him.

‘What’s this?’

‘You’re the only one of us sober enough to drive.’ Hotch raises an eyebrow at that comment, and produces his own keys. Rossi notices that they are the keys to an FBI issue SUV; Hotch drove here straight from Quantico. If he had to place a bet, he would guess that the Unit Chief’s ready bag was already in the back seat.

‘Reid, Morgan, Prentiss. Get your stuff, take the SUV, and get on the road. JJ, take Will and Henry home and meet Rossi and I at the office. Garcia; you’re coming with us.’ The keys are swapped and the orders followed without hesitation.

‘Hey Morgan,’ Emily calls down from upstairs. ‘Could you put some coffee in the thermos?’ They both need to sober up, and they don’t have time to do it before they leave.

‘You’ll get there before us,’ Hotch starts, but he is interrupted by a short laugh from the kitchen.

‘Not with Reid at the wheel,’ Morgan grins, the thermos flask in his hand. ‘He drives like somebody’s grandma, weather notwithstanding.’

‘In winter, the number of accidents on the road increases exponentially,’ Reid announces. ‘Fortunately, the risk of collision can be decreased by implementing a number of safer driving techniques.’

‘And _that_ is why Reid is driving,’ concludes Garcia.

Morgan smirks. ‘Ten bucks says we get there _after_ Hotch.’

‘Oh, I never said you wouldn’t.’ Garcia barely had time to wink as she was pulled out the door by Rossi. They had no time to waste.

‘I’ll talk with you later, baby girl,’ Morgan called out after her. If she responded in any capacity, he did not hear it.

‘I’ll see you in Keyser,’ is JJ’s farewell, as she too departs.

Neither party knew that both statements would, in time, prove false.

*             *             *

‘I spy with my little eye, something beginning with “S.”’

‘Snow,’ comes the reply from two tired, hung-over profilers. Both had been fairly confident that their drinking was not excessive enough to result in a hangover, and both were sorely mistaken. Emily had all but threatened to kill Reid if he didn’t turn off the radio. Fearing for his life, he did so.

Ten minutes later, he pulls into a gas station, returning with several bottles of water, orange juice, Gatorade, a jar of pickles and Alka-Seltzer Morning Relief.

‘You really shouldn’t have drunk all that coffee,’ he explains, handing them the bag as he takes to the driver’s seat. ‘It actually serves to dehydrate you, which is really the last thing you want right now.’

Emily ignores the bottle of water in her hand, and instead stares at the jar of pickles. ‘You’re trying to screw with us, right?’

‘Not at all. The high mineral content of the pickle makes it effective in reducing hangover symptoms.’ Skeptical, Emily returns the jar of pickles to the bag. She’ll stick with water.

‘I hear a Bloody Mary does wonders,’ contributes Morgan. The incessant pounding of his head deters him from actually requesting a Bloody Mary, though.

‘The fructose in the tomato juice helps metabolize the alcohol faster. Though if you drink too many, you’ll just wind up drunk again.’ His words go unheard. They have not quite crossed the threshold of recovery.

It is almost three a.m, and, though it is dark out, the headlights give them enough light to see the expanse of snow that covers the ground beside the road. It’s still falling; heavy enough to impair vision slightly, but not heavy enough to prevent it from melting as soon as it hits the road. Soon, though, if the weather broadcasts are accurate, the wind will pick up and visibility will decrease. They hope they will be in Keyser by that time.

But then, hope is never a money-back guarantee.

*             *             *

Both Emily and Morgan are asleep when the blizzard does come. At this point, they are still three hours from Keyser.

Reid leans forward, as if doing so will grant him better visibility through the now heavily falling snow. A sudden snore from Morgan in the passengers’ seat causes him to jerk the steering wheel slightly.

‘Pull over,’ says Emily sharply from the back seat, causing him to jump again; he hadn’t known that she was awake.

‘What?’

‘Pull over. We can’t drive in this.’ It’s still dark outside, but the danger is unmistakable. The snow is propelled in every which direction. It hasn’t reached its peak yet, but that is no reason not to be cautious.

He nods. He knows she is right. He starts to edge the SUV to the right, but is interrupted by a soft crack, almost imperceptible over the sound of the rising winds. The SUV lurches, causing Morgan to jump awake.

‘What was that?’ he asks, his voice slurred with sleep.

It lurches again, this time more violently. Reid swears uncharacteristically, and tries to regain control of the steering wheel. The tires slip against the ice. Any “safe driving” techniques he was utilizing are lost. Caught by gravity, the SUV rolls down the moderate embankment, unopposed by the brake pedal, though it is pressed to the floor. Reid keeps all his concentration on keeping the vehicle upright, ignoring the not quite panicky voices of Emily and Morgan.

It finally slows to a stop before a large, snow covered tree. The bumper bar barely taps the trunk. Reid takes his hands off the wheel, denying responsibility for the incident. Fortunately, he isn’t being blamed.

‘There was a sound,’ Emily says. ‘Right before we crashed, I heard a sound.’

‘Do you think we hit something?’ Morgan asks, staring out the window. The white is only intermittently tempered by other flashes of color. The only way for them to know is to go outside and check; it’s not the most desirable option.

‘All for one,’ says Morgan grimly. Either they all go outside, or none of them do. Reid pales at this prospect; he’s only wearing a light cardigan, a fact which both his co-workers have already ridiculed him for.

Emily throws him her own coat. He catches it, startled. ‘What about you?’

She doesn’t answer directly, instead choosing to tell a short anecdote. ‘Have you ever been to Siberia, Reid?’

He shakes his head. She already knew what the answer would be.

‘January, 1987. Barnaul. I was outside in a t-shirt and jeans. It was forty degrees below zero. I can handle the cold.’

‘How long were you in hospital for after that?’ Morgan ventures, opening the car door.

‘Three days,’ she answers nonchalantly. ‘But it isn’t forty below here.’ She steps outside, hugging at her arms. She can tolerate the cold, but that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t prefer to be elsewhere.

‘That’s without wind chill, though.’ Reid puts the coat on; it reaches his knees, and he immediately turns from mild-mannered genius into something far more sinister.

The snow washes around them, catching on skin and bare clothes. They move to the front of the car, examining the damage.

‘Guys,’ says Morgan. They all noticed the problem at the same time; it isn’t the fact that the car is slightly crumpled against the tree. It’s the bullet hole that’s in the middle of the hood.

‘This SUV didn’t have a bullet hole to begin with, did it?’ asks Reid. The inherent danger of some of the cases they investigate, it is a possibility, however distant.

‘No.’ Emily reaches for her weapon cautiously. There is another cracking noise.

‘Was that…?’ Morgan trails off as he sees Reid collapse, clutching at his shoulder. Crimson red blood is already seeping through his fingers. Emily jumps to his aid, laying her gun within reach.

‘Go!’ she yells at Morgan. He draws his own weapon, eyes scanning the white landscape for their assailant. It’s difficult; he can barely see, thanks to the snowflakes that are assaulting his vision.

Emily takes off her jacket, pressing it into the wound. The cold bites into her like sharp daggers, but she fights to ignore it. ‘Stay with me, Reid,’ she mutters. Her words are lost to the wind.

She’s still pressing the jacket into the wound when she hears a sound. She picks up the gun beside her, hoping that she doesn’t accidentally shoot Morgan in the fray. ‘Morgan?’ she calls out. So focused, she is, on the approaching figure, that she doesn’t hear the footsteps behind her. Doesn’t even have time to react before she is knocked unconscious. She slumps forward over Reid’s still body.

The first thing Morgan sees as he returns the SUV is an unconscious Emily and a bleeding Reid. They are alone, as though someone attacked and simply left them for dead. Derek Morgan knows that that isn’t the case. He knows that before he feels the gun pressed up against his spine.

‘Do exactly as I say,’ the voice is low, and has a whistling quality that seems to match the wind. ‘And they won’t die.’ Morgan doesn’t move. He is knocked forward, and does not hear the final word of his aggressor.

‘Yet.’

 


	2. Nine Minutes to Midnight

Midnight

**Chapter Two**

Nine Minutes to Midnight

*             *             *

_Strong lives are motivated by dynamic purposes._

**Kenneth Hildebrand**

*             *             *

Derek Morgan wakes with his wrists bound to a chair. The wood is hard and scratches against his bare skin. He tries to maneuver his hands and gets several splinters for his efforts. His head is pounding like a jackhammer, and he isn’t sure whether it is the remnants of his hangover, or another complaint altogether.

‘Reid?’ his voice is strained, as though he has only just remembered how to use it. ‘Emily?’ So concerned over the fate of his friends, he hasn’t quite noticed the cold. He waits several seconds for a reply, and then slumps backwards awkwardly.

_‘Are they dead?’_ he asks himself. He had seen them lying there in the snow, the only movement being the flakes that swirled around them.

Were they already dead then? Were all his efforts at keeping them alive wasted? He shivers at the thought; at the potential loss of his friends, and at the notion of being trapped in this strange place, all alone. His shivers alert him to the fact that it is freezing; the cold assaults him through the many layers he still wears. The only things he has been relieved of are his Glock, his shoes, and his badge. Everything else remains. He tries to look at his watch, scraping off more flesh in the attempt.

The luminescent hands tell him that it is 9:32. He isn’t sure if that’s am or pm. How long had he been out? What time had they crashed the car? What time had they been ambushed by the unsub? He can’t give the answer to any of those questions.

He realizes then that he is unconsciously referring to their attacker as “the unsub.” It doesn’t strike as hard as the realization that that makes him the victim. He can’t fight back in this position. He can track the unsub down, and tackle him to the floor. He can’t cuff the unsub tightly, reciting rights in an incensed voice.

He can only sit in the darkness, waiting for whatever nightmares their unsub has planned for him.

*             *             *

Emily Prentiss wakes up feeling as though she has just been hit by a truck. Her head is screaming, her body aches, and for almost a full minute, she has no recollection of who she is, or why she is in this strange place.

It all comes rushing back when she sees Reid. He’s lying there, limp, unmoving. His head is lolled to the side, and at first, she thinks he’s dead.

‘Reid!’ She ignores the pain, and rushes towards him. She puts one hand to his cheek and one to his chest. He’s alive. Her right hand pulls away covered in blood. Remembering his bullet wound, she puts pressure on his shoulder. The act causes him to stir.

He gives a groan of pain and blinks several times, as if unsure exactly what is going on. ‘Emily?’ He thinks it’s her, but he can’t be sure. His head is fuzzy almost to the point of delusion. He feels her slipping off his layers of clothing in an attempt to get to the wound.

She lays his cardigan and her coat on top of him; she doesn’t want him to succumb to the bitter chill while she’s trying to stop the bleeding. There is a pile of rags beside her, clean enough that they won’t cause infection. She holds them against the blood flow, and then searches for a suitable bandage substitute.

It’s a small room – a cell, really. There’s a bed with several thin, stained blankets on it. She doesn’t want to know what those stains are, though she can guess.  In one corner of the room, there’s a 15.5 gallon keg. In the other corner, an empty bucket. She knows she could probably use one of the blankets as a bandage, but she also knows that they will need the blankets for their traditional purpose.

There’s nothing in here for her to treat the wound, let alone bandage it. She pulls her fingers away to check the damage; it’s a through-and-through. The bullet itself is probably lodged in a tree somewhere out there in the wilderness. That’s good though – it means she doesn’t have to deal with the added hassle of removing a bullet. For now, all she can do is stop the bleeding.

It’s a snap decision. She knows that he needs the warmth more than she does. It’s a polypropylene shirt, designed specifically for this kind of weather. She doesn’t know how well it works as a bandage – she knows he would, but he’s not in a particularly scientific mood right now.

His hand flails wildly as she wraps the shirt around the wound. Eyes meeting his, she grabs the hand and holds it tightly. His eyes are dark, in pain. She knows he’s been through hell and back before, but that isn’t always preparation enough for the next trip. She rebuttons his shirt, fixes up his outer layers.

‘It’s okay.’ She tells him. ‘It’s okay, Spence.’ He’s shaking, so she tries her hardest to lift him up towards the bed. He attempts to co-operate, but his limbs don’t seem to be following the orders his mind sends. He is, effectively, a dead weight.

He groans as she heaves him onto the bed. She tucks the thin, dirty blankets around him; at this point, too much cold will send him into shock. She realizes that she’s still holding his hand. She tries to extricate her fingers, but is stopped by a moan from Reid.

‘Reid? What’s wrong?’

‘Please.’ His voice is weak; she knows he won’t last more than a couple of days without proper medical treatment. ‘Don’t let go.’

She sits awkwardly beside him, their hands grasped tightly. They are each other’s safety net. And they’re not letting go.

*             *             *

Aaron Hotchner stares out the window of the SUV dolefully. The blizzard that they had been hoping to miss has come early; the time of their arrival in Keyser depends entirely on the length of the blizzard. Reid had made a comment the previous evening about the longest blizzard on record lasting for ten days. They’re hoping that this one won’t last that long; there isn’t exactly a substantial supply of food in the car.

They had pulled over to the side of the road, unwilling to drive in such poor conditions. According to the GPS, there’s a gas station a few miles ahead, so if worst comes to worst, they can brave the gale force winds and the raging storm.

JJ is asleep, stretched across the back seat and relishing the warmth of the heater. Rossi had been awake briefly, but had fallen into a light snooze when he realized that they weren’t going anywhere for a while. This left Hotch, unable to sleep, staring out that window dolefully.

He has a strange feeling in his gut, as if something has gone horribly wrong. He had tried calling Morgan, Reid and Prentiss earlier, but there is no reception; cell towers have evidently been affected by the blizzard.

A shuffling sound from behind tells him that JJ is stirring. She seems unsure of her location at first, and startled at the absence of a warm body beside her. Technically speaking, this is her first case back since the birth of Henry. She has returned from maternity leave early due to the not so subtle hints from her co-workers. It isn’t that Jordan Todd was a significantly detrimental influence to the BAU, but the team had clearly suffered somewhat in JJ’s absence.

‘No signs of it dying down?’ she asks Hotch.

He grimaces.

‘No.’ He lets a few seconds of silence slip past him before continuing. ‘We should have waited.’

‘You can’t control the weather, Hotch. Getting trapped in the middle of a snowstorm isn’t your fault.’ He has taken all errors to heart lately, whether they are legitimately his mistakes or not. It is a character trait the entire team knows has been keeping him awake at night, working to moderate those faults. If anything happens that he thinks he could have possibly prevented, he spends days brooding.

The job has eaten them all away inside.

Some of them will put on brave faces, make jokes, find something to smile about, but it’s a façade; one that they are quite happy to keep up for each other. It’s how they manage to keep going. They know that if one of them breaks, the others will be there. They don’t know that in the coming days, they will need to be as strong as possible.

For themselves and for their friends.

*             *             *

He can hear the wind howling outside, battering against the wooden walls. There’s no heating, no insulation. This house feels like it was never built to last the winter months; a mere shack. Despite the coat that he still wears, he is shivering. The luminescent hands of his watch now read 10.18. It’s a time he will remember, for it is when he first hears the footsteps. They are faint at first, distant. Then they grow louder, more forceful. The unsub is coming for him.

The door swings open and light shines in. He can see the unsub silhouetted against the rectangle of light. If he were to look around, he would now be able to see the things he had missed in the dark; the equipment racks which lined the walls, instruments of torture of which he would have recognized only half. He would have seen the boarded up windows, the scratch marks on the wall. Even without the light, though, he knows that this is not a nice place. He doesn’t need the light to hear the screams of those that have gone before him. He doesn’t need the light to know that he isn’t going to get out of this without some injury, if indeed he gets out of it at all.

He stares at the approaching figure, trying to intimidate as much as he can from his admittedly inferior standing. His attempt is impeded by the sudden intrusion of bright light. Overhead, the fluorescents flicker on. There is, apparently, electricity in this strange, forbidding place.

He opens his eyes slowly, his field of view fading from black.

‘Derek Morgan.’ It is not a question; the unsub tosses an FBI badge from one hand to the other. ‘_FBI_.’ The acronym is spoken in a mocking tone – the tone one would usually associate with an embarrassing family secret. This unsub does not feel threatened.

‘Go to hell,’ Morgan spits. It’s only part actual antagonism. He’s trying to gauge the unsub’s response. To get a better idea of who this man is, and why he decided to kidnap three FBI agents in the middle of a snowstorm.

There are no further preliminaries; the unsub does not try to make any conversation. He pulls something off one of the racks on the wall; due to the angle, Morgan cannot quite make out what his first method of torture is to be.

Derek Morgan has experience pain in his life, both physical and emotional. He has seen things that would send most people into insanity, he has felt things that have brought tears to even his eyes. He has never experienced such direct torture before. He has seen the effects of it – the mental anguish, the coping mechanisms. He has seen Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but he has never experienced it.

Somewhere in his mind, he’s telling himself that it will kill Reid to go through this again. That it was bad enough the first time, with Henkel. But now. Now, they are trapped in a house in an unknown location, surrounded by freezing winds. If he had to guess, he would say that the rest of the team did not even know they were missing, that they would not realize for hours yet. A lot of damage could be done in a few hours.

He bites back the pain as a long thing object is inserted beneath his fingernail. He closes his eyes, afraid that seeing the event transpire will convince him that it’s all real. He wants to scream, but he can’t. He won’t. He has to make it through this, if not for his own sake, then for the sake of his friends.

 


	3. Eight Minutes to Midnight

Midnight****

**Chapter Three**

Eight Minutes to Midnight

*             *             *

_Cease to ask what the morrow will bring forth. And set down as gain each day that Fortune grants._

**Horace**

*             *             *

David Rossi turns off the heater and rolls the window back up. While keeping the heater on constantly seems an appealing idea, it will waste fuel that they may be in want of later.

‘I think it’s dying down,’ Hotch announces. He’s still staring outside, watching flakes drift across his vision. They are sauntering, now, rather than racing. They will be stuck in the car for a while yet; even after the blizzard has stopped, they must still wait for the road to be cleared. It will be nighttime before they arrive in Keyser. In that time, a dozen new developments could have been made.

JJ takes a sip from her water bottle. ‘Still no luck on contacting the others?’ she asks, though she is not hopeful. She isn’t particularly worried, though; she knows that Reid, Prentiss and Morgan are quite capable of looking after themselves, mitigating circumstances aside. Even then, though, they have a history of keeping together and pulling through in the direst of situations.

‘No,’ grimaces Hotch; the expression seems to be a constant feature on his face today. ‘No reception.’

‘Don’t blame yourself for doing your job,’ Rossi comments sagely. He has been privy to Hotch’s guilty lamentations before, and indeed, he has felt the same remorse before. It is not something that is easily switched off. It is simply the burden that comes with being in charge.

The three of them watch as the snow becomes lighter and lighter, until the sky can finally be seen. The endless white that the snow brought has gone; they can see other cars in the distance, stopped as they have. The road is covered beneath a thick layer of snow.

They will not be leaving any time soon.

*             *             *

Derek Morgan feels the jarring contrast of the hot/cold dichotomy. He feels the air turn his body to ice, while simultaneously, he feels the burning sensation of hot iron against his skin. This is the fourth method the unsub has tried, the first three evidently not enough. He was in pain. He felt weak, humiliated. Though, he supposed, that was the point of torture. He could not even find the strength to fight back when his bonds were loosened so that his outer layers of clothing could be removed. They are sitting in the corner of the room, taunting him with their warmth.

Finally, he hears the brand being lifted; he is too numb to feel it.

‘I think that’s enough for today.’ The unsub’s voice is cold, emotionless. Morgan is surprised by the words; ‘_Is it still today_?’ he asks himself. It feels like it has been longer. He has the briefest thought of Reid telling a joke about the theory of relativity. It makes him chuckle slightly. Then he remembers that he doesn’t know if Reid – or Emily – is alive or dead.

He blinks twice, trying to clear his vision. There is nothing physically impeding the retinas, but the stimulation of his pain receptors has caused black and white dots to dance before him. When he can finally see the room, see the racks of torture equipment, see the harsh light that he finds irritating, he realizes that the unsub has gone, leaving him tied to the chair.

*             *             *

It had been silent for a good long while.

Then the screaming had started. Though her mind was nothing if not fuzzy, two things had been very clear to Emily Prentiss. Firstly, those were definitely Morgan’s screams. Secondly, he was in a _lot_ of pain. She had never heard Morgan scream before that point, and she knows that she never wants to hear it again.

The screams have stopped now, replaced with a foreboding silence, as though something sinister is about to happen.

She’s pressed into Reid as closely as she dares; while she needs to keep him as warm as possible, she does not want to succumb to the cold herself. Even still, her body is covered with goose bumps, arm hairs standing on end. She is shivering slightly, and her hands are numbing. She is entering the first stages of hypothermia. Unconsciously, she snuggles into him tighter, careful not to push the blankets off him. He gives a moan that is consistent with pain.

She moves away slightly, just as the door to the room opens. Apprehensive, she gets to her feet, stumbling only slightly. She can feel the rough wooden floorboards through her socks.

It is a face she hasn’t seen before. Weathered – not old, but not young either. If she had to guess, she’d say he was in his mid-forties. His hair is dark, but it is starting to grey at the edges. He is dressed warmly, but she gets the impression that he has acclimatized himself to the cold anyway.

‘Where’s Morgan?’ she demands. It doesn’t occur to her that Morgan might be dead, or that this man doesn’t know their names. Right now, she is focused on one thing: making sure that her friends live.

He gives her a smile, though there is no warmth in it. She already knows that this man is a sadist.

‘Agent Morgan will be returning soon.’ While the words are not particularly threatening, the man’s tone of voice has an ominous quality that sends a different kind of shiver down her spine.

‘What do you want?’ she asks cautiously. She has a feeling she already knows the answer. The screams still echo in her mind. ‘_Will those be my screams next_?’ she asks herself.

He looks first at her, then at Reid’s prone form on the bed. She takes a step forward so she is between him and the bed. She realizes that she was wrong. He isn’t here for her.

‘Don’t touch him,’ she says quietly. His smile widens, as if the notion of her standing up to him is somehow humorous. She says nothing, but takes a small step forward. It is no small feat to keep the fear from her eyes, but she manages to at suppress at least some of it. Her vision is blurry, her reaction time slowed. She doesn’t see him striking her until it is too late.

Stunned, she falls backwards. She had seen the boots he was wearing, but she does not comprehend the sheer weight of them until one strikes her in the stomach. She is incapacitated quickly, but that does not seem to be enough. He puts his knee on her chest, his full weight behind it.

Looking up at him, she can feel her lungs compressing, the air escaping. He is saying something, but her brain cannot interpret the words. He takes her right arm, and she only realizes what he is doing when she feels the bone snap. What escapes her mouth is more than a whimper, though not quite a scream. The sound of pain is unmistakable.

She is unable to do anything as he moves towards the bed. She tries to stand, but her body rebels against her.

The last thing she sees before blacking out is the unsub carrying an unconscious Reid from the room to whatever horrors lie beyond.

*             *             *

He stirs slightly at the shock of being lifted from the bed. At first, he doesn’t know where he is or why his shoulder hurts so much. Then, he remembers the snow, remembers the bullet striking his flesh. After that, it’s blurry. A blend of sound and color, none of it providing any concrete intelligence regarding what his situation is.

No sooner than he has been lifted, he is put down again, this time onto a slab, rather than a bed. It’s cold and hard, and he wonders if he is actually dead. If this is a morgue of some variety, and he is about to be sliced open. He tries to make a sound, to let this person know that he is still alive.

Cold dark eyes look into his. There is no emotion in these eyes. He averts his own eyes; if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.

He feels the needle go into his arm. He knows that feeling – that glorious feeling. It isn’t Dilaudid. If were forced to take a guess, he would say morphine. Fuzzy, he only manages to comprehend bits and pieces of what the man is telling him.

‘…seen your track marks…scarring…send you right over the edge.’ Naturally. The unsub doesn’t care about relieving his pain. He cares about sending him back into the spiral of addiction. Reid tries to pull his arm away, in spite of the fact that he has already been injected.

‘…stitch up this wound…no fun if you die on me too soon.’ Reid gasps slightly as the makeshift bandage is removed from his arm. He cannot recall what color the shirt was originally, but he is fairly sure that it wasn’t red.

The drug takes hold of him. In his weakened state, it does more than just dull the pain. It sends him into a limbo; he isn’t conscious, nor is he unconscious. He is aware of the gloved fingers probing his wound, yet it feels as though he is detached, watching from a distance.

When he blinks this time, his eyes stay closed. He dreams. He dreams of blissful, happy things. It is a feeling of ecstasy. In these dreams, there is no fear, no pain. In these dreams, he is not lying on a cold slab, being operated on by a sadist. In these dreams, he isn’t in a strange house in the middle of a blizzard. In fact, the only thing his dreams have in common with the real world is the company, present madman excluded.

He knows – he has always known – that happiness is not about money, or material possessions. It is about family, about friendship. He thinks the main reason his own childhood was so miserable is due to the distinct lack of those factors. He loves his mother, he always will, but he knows that she will not always be there; both in a physical and a mental sense.

He found family, found friendship, within the ranks of the BAU. It doesn’t matter that their time is spent catching serial killers rather than going to the movies. It is a friendship tempered in the fires of hell.

And things are about to get hotter.

*             *             *

Morgan is left alone for what feels like eternity. When the unsub finally returns, he is wearing what appear to be medical scrubs. Drops of blood have splattered across them in an arc. Morgan is immediately fearful of the physical wellbeing of his friends.

_‘Did he slice one of them open, just for fun?_’ While it is a horrifying thought, deep down, he knows that if that were the case, there would be more blood. It would have stained the very pits of his soul, as though it wasn’t stained enough already.

‘What did you do to them?’

The unsub puts a hand to his heart in mock offense. ‘Do? I saved _Special Agent Doctor Spencer Reid’s_ life, that’s what I did.’ He gives Reid’s full title with even more derision. The fact that he has three (_‘It is still three, isn’t it_?’ Morgan asks himself) FBI agents at his mercy seems to please the unsub. It’s one single emotion in the rather sparse list.

The unsub unstraps Morgan’s left wrist, a gun pointed unwaveringly at the profiler. He needn’t bother. While Morgan puts on a tough veneer, the torture has left him in pain, and unable to fight back. Not even the hours of recovery time seem to have been enough.

He is pulled to his feet, the gun pressed into his spine. In his spare hand, the unsub carries the coat and jacket Morgan had worn.

‘Left.’ Morgan takes the left turn. ‘Right.’ He takes the right. ‘Open the door.’ His fingers scream in agony as he turns the key and the knob in slow succession. All he wants to do is collapse, but what he sees changes his mind.

‘Emily!’ He pulls from the unsub’s grasp, and rushes to his colleague’s side. He puts a hand to her cheek; it’s ice cold. She’s only wearing a singlet – the singlet she wore last night – pants, and socks. Though unconscious, her body still shivers.

‘How long has she been like this?!’ Morgan demands. There is fire in his eyes. Anger. It is one thing for the unsub to torture him, but to hurt his friends? That is a scorn that can never be forgiven.

The unsub shrugs, as if he isn’t quite sure. But he is sure. ‘I don’t know. A couple of hours maybe.’

He is still smiling as he slams the door shut behind him.


	4. Seven Minutes to Midnight

Midnight****

**Chapter Four**

Seven Minutes to Midnight

*             *             *

_It is impossible to go through life without trust: That is to be imprisoned in the worst cell of all, oneself._

**Graham Greene**

*             *             *

Hotch rolls his window down for the approaching deputy. He flashes his badge, knowing that if he doesn’t, the ensuing conversation will last much longer. The deputy straightens at the sight of the badge. He suddenly seems intimidated, embarrassed, almost.

‘Sorry it took so long to clear the road,’ he says. ‘They’re putting on a free meal in town. Free accommodation, too. Lot of people upset about being trapped in the middle of a snowstorm.’ He is apologetic for something that is not his fault; it is a trait many law enforcement officers have adopted.

‘Thank-you for the offer,’ says Hotch. His tone is nothing but polite, though inside he is impatient. They need to get to Keyser. ‘But we’re needed elsewhere.’

He stops at the gas station that is just ahead; he is not alone. At least a dozen other cars have used the majority of their fuel to heat their cars during the blizzard. After almost half an hour of waiting, the SUV finally rolls forward to the pump. Hotch fills the tank while JJ and Rossi purchase food from the adjoined convenience store. It has been a long day, trapped in the snow.

But the day is not over yet.

*             *             *

When he gathers her in his arms, she offers no resistance. He sees the awkward angle at which her right arm hangs. He sees the bruises that are already starting to form on her face; a mottled purple against the stark white of her skin. He curses the unsub for doing this to her.

As part of his Police Academy training, he had learned how to treat an individual with hypothermia if there was no further medical attention available. Chicago’s harsh winters meant that he had used this training at least once.

He knows that the best way to treat severe hypothermia is an injection of warm liquid into the veins. If the outer part of the body is warmed first, the cold blood will be forced to the heart. He is grateful, then, that Emily has not yet reached the stages of severe hypothermia. Her shivering is mild, and her lips, ears and fingers have not yet turned blue. He hopes that he will still be able to pull her from the brink.

He lowers her gently to the bed, and runs to retrieve his coat from the floor where the unsub had dropped it. He wraps it around her, careful not to disturb the arm that is quite clearly broken. His body screams at him. The pain is not as bad as it was – it is hard to imagine that it could ever be as bad as it was – but his wounds will take some time to heal. He draws her close to him and pulls the blanket over them.

He hopes that it will be enough.

*             *             *

He wakes up to a white light. He feels like he is walking on air, but he isn’t walking. He isn’t even standing.

Deep inside, he knows he should be feeling upset. Eighteen months of being clean, stolen away by a an unsub who is getting off on his pain. He knows what he would do if he were the unsub, if he were the sadist. He knew how this would play out. The unsub would give him this one hit – this one single hit – and then he would watch the need, the clamoring for more. It is the kind of pain that physical torture can never bring. This is a different kind of torture altogether.

His shoulder is mostly numb. The only sensation he feels is a distinct itchiness. The raw throbbing pain is gone, a distant memory. Soon he will feel something else; a burning desire to fill his veins. He knows from experience that he would prefer the pain. But then, it wouldn’t be torturous if he is getting what he wants.

He sits up slowly. He’s on a bed in a plain, white room. Indeed, the bed is the only thing in the room, and it is bolted to the floor. He is wearing the clothes he was shot in, stained as they are. He feels awkwardly beneath his shirt and finds a bandage covering his wound. His fingers play with the bullet hole in Emily’s coat. That simple action brings him back to reality.

Emily? Morgan? Were they here too? Did they get taken by this unsub as well? His memory is fuzzy, which concerns him. His memory is rarely, if ever fuzzy. The events of the previous twenty-four hours flash by in freeze frames, up until the point where he feels a sharp pain in his shoulder. He’s falling backwards, bleeding. He’s lying in the snow.

What happened after that?

The freeze frames slow down; he can remember a few events vaguely. He remembers Emily’s hands pushed into his wound. He remembers her telling him that everything is going to be okay. Did she really say that, or is it just his own mind, reassuring him?

He stands awkwardly, his feet adamant on disobeying every order that the brain gives.

He puts one foot in front of the other shakily. One step. Two. It takes him a minute or so to get his rhythm going, and yet another minute before he reaches the door. But to no avail; it’s locked.

Exhausted from just that slight movement, he does not even bother returning to the bed before he collapses in a heap on the ground.

*             *             *

By the time the FBI issue SUV arrives in Keyser, West Virginia, it is nearing six o’clock p.m. At this point, though their colleagues do not yet know it, Morgan, Reid and Emily have been missing for over twelve hours.

The SUV groans as it pulls up to the police station. While it was built to survive extraordinary circumstances, that is not to say it wouldn’t have been better off without a day of wind, ice and snow. It is likely that they will need to see a mechanic before the week is through, simply to ensure that everything is in working order.

JJ steps through the doors of the station, brushing flakes of snow from her clothes and hair. She approaches the front desk.

‘Special Agent Jareau, FBI. I need to speak with Sheriff Ward.’ The woman swivels on her chair, and yells, startling JJ.

‘Jeff, the feds are here!’ She turns back to what remains of the BAU, licking at her teeth. JJ forces herself not to show disgust at the long buildup of coffee and nicotine stains. Not showing disgust is a skill she has perfected over the years.

‘Is this all of you?’ she asks. It takes JJ a few seconds to interpret the words, and when she does, she realizes what this means. The others aren’t here yet; but that’s okay. It’s what they expected.

‘We got caught in the blizzard,’ says JJ, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. ‘I imagine the rest of the team have been delayed, somewhat.’ She turns to Hotch. ‘Have you…’

‘I’ve got reception,’ he says, holding up his own cell. ‘But I don’t think it’s my end that’s the problem.’

‘Cell coverage can be a little iffy after blizzards around here,’ the woman says. Her name is Midge, according to the nametag that sits on her lapel. She speaks in an almost condescending tone, as if being from D.C. is akin to being a foreign citizen.

A man in his early fifties comes rushing into the room. He is balding, and even in the freezing temperatures, he seems to be sweating.

‘Sheriff Ward?’ JJ asks, as she shakes his hand. He nods emphatically. ‘Jennifer Jareau; we spoke on the phone.’

He leads them through the tiny station into a space he has cleared out for them. Though there are only three agents so far, it is already cramped.

‘Can you bring us up to speed?’ asks Hotch. He is all business, a refreshing contrast to the bumbling nature of the Sheriff. ‘Tell us about the latest missing person.’ He still isn’t entirely convinced he should be here; a missing person does not a case make.

‘Well that’s just the thing.’ The Sheriff gives a smile that has no humor in it at all. ‘He ain’t missing anymore.’

‘He was found?’ Hotch asks, eyebrows raised.

The Sheriff shrugs. ‘Well…his body was found. Signs of torture, starvation.’

David Rossi swears slightly under his breath. It isn’t in his normal pattern of behavior, but after the day he’s had today, he’s willing to make an exception. There’s no doubt about it now.

They have a serial killer on their hands.

*             *             *

When Morgan wakes, he realizes that at least three hours have passed. He does not even remember falling asleep. He suspects that he succumbed to a mixture of pain and exhaustion. His arms are still wrapped around Emily. He stays deadly still for a single moment; long enough to ensure himself that her heart is still beating. It is, but that does not mean she is out of the woods. Health problems aside, they are still in a dangerous situation.

‘Emily?’ He chooses his volume carefully; loud enough for her to hear him, but soft enough that he won’t send her into a panic.

‘Is that you, Daddy?’ She shifts in his arms, and he cannot help but chuckle slightly at her words.

‘Well, you can call me Daddy if you want,’ he says. ‘But I prefer to go by Morgan. Derek, if I’m feeling extra casual.’

She lets out a sound that is halfway between pain and amusement. ‘Oh God. Sorry, Morgan.’ Her voice is muffled by his chest, so she adjusts her position, allowing herself to see his face. She looks into his eyes, sees the fear that she never expected to see him expressing.

‘So it wasn’t a dream then?’ It’s all coming back; both the memories, and the blinding pain. She lets out a choked sob as she feels her arm.

‘Well if it’s a dream, then it’s one we’re both having,’ he reasons. ‘But I seriously doubt that. All the girls in my dreams wear bikinis.’ He’s trying to make her laugh, to make the situation somehow seem a little less terrifying. It half works.

‘Be kind of cold in a bikini,’ she shivers. He puts a hand to her cheek; she is still cold to the touch.

‘Oh, nah,’ he brushes it off. ‘There’s usually beaches, too. Sun, sand and margaritas.’

‘Well in that case, this is the worst bar service I’ve ever had.’ They both laugh at that, and though neither will admit it, there are tears as well.

‘Has Reid come back yet?’ she asks him eventually, though she already knows the answer.

‘I haven’t seen Reid,’ he says grimly. ‘I…I woke up in a room, tied to a chair. He – the unsub – he tortured me. For hours, it felt like. Then he leaves me alone for a while, and then brings me back here. I find you on the floor, unconscious and freezing to death. Scared the hell outta me, girl.’ He brushes over the aspects of his own pain rather quickly, keen for it not to be the focus of attention.

‘He tortured you?’ she asks. He knew that she, of all people, would not ignore that. She would want to know that he was okay.

‘I’m fine. Seriously, Emily, I’m fine.’ With her good arm, she gripped his hand beneath the blanket. ‘It hurt for a while, but it’s mostly aching now. Tell me about Reid,’ he pressured. He knew that by shifting the conversation to Reid would postpone the discussion of his own experiences.

‘I woke up in here. Reid was still bleeding from the wound. I used my shirt, dressed it as best as I could. Tried to keep him warm. Then _he _comes in. I thought he wanted me at first, but no…he’d come for Reid. I tried to stop him, but…’ She makes an awkward gesture towards her bruising, and the arm she’s trying desperately to keep still. ‘God, Morgan. What if he’s torturing Reid? With a wound like that, I don’t think he’ll be able to last long.’

Morgan frowns for a second. The unsub had said something. What was it? “Do? I saved _Special Agent Doctor Spencer Reid’s_ life, that’s what I did.” He remembers every detail of that taunting voice. He even remembers the coldness of the unsub’s eyes as he spoke.

‘I think he wanted to treat the wound.’ Morgan speaks, but he doesn’t know if he believes his own words. Why would someone so keen on torturing them attempt to nurse them back to health. Emily voices the same question.

‘We think he’s a sadist, right?’ asks Morgan eventually.

‘Absolutely.’

‘I think he’s intent on prolonging the pain. He won’t get much satisfaction if Reid dies of blood loss before he gets a chance to torture him to death.’ The notion seems to fit the preliminary profile they’ve both worked up in their minds. The profile they’re both yet to share with each other.

As if on cue, the door swings open. Neither have a chance to get to their feet before it is pulled shut.

But they are no longer alone.

Standing in front of the closed door looking rather worse for wear is a very confused Spencer Reid.

 


	5. Six Minutes to Midnight

Midnight

**Chapter Five**

Six Minutes to Midnight

*             *             *

_Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that._

**Martin Luther King Junior**

*             *             *

Morgan and Emily throw off the blanket, aggravating their injuries in their hasty attempts to get to their feet. Reid still stands, staring at the wall blankly. He is strangely subdued.

‘Reid.’ Morgan waves a hand in front of his face, trying to get his attention. ‘Are you alright, man?’ It is an unnecessary question; in their own unique way, none of them are alright.

He has a faraway look in his eyes, and when he talks, he is talking to no-one in particular. ‘Did you know that Morphine was named for Morpheus, Greek God of Dreams? It was the first ever alkaloid isolated from a plant source.’ Morgan and Emily stare at each other in horror. They both know how Tobias Henkel nearly destroyed Reid’s life by forcing Dilaudid upon him. Relapse now would be almost catastrophic.

Reid does not resist as his sleeves are rolled up. He is still caught up in the effects of the drug. The track mark is on his right arm. Morgan swears.

‘Let’s get him to the bed,’ says Emily. She helps Morgan lift the unresponsive Reid. She grits her teeth as the weight of him puts pressure on her injured arm.

Morgan pulls the keg of water closer to the bed; lacking in any appropriate vessel for the water, he cups his hands under the tap. Even in his weakened state, Reid laps at the water eagerly. If he were in his conventional state, he could have informed them that a dry mouth was a sign of morphine use.

‘Do you know anything about treating drug relapses?’ Morgan asks Emily desperately. She shakes her head.

‘I think we’ll be going cold turkey,’ she says. It will not be pleasant for Reid, but then, pleasantness isn’t exactly in large quantities for any of them.

Shaking on the bed, Reid looks up into Morgan’s eyes. It is the first time since entering the room that he has acknowledged their presence. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. His voice is weak, and tears threaten to escape his eyes. ‘I just…I couldn’t stop him. He just…I can feel it, in my veins. Get it out. Please, just get it out.’ His tone takes on a pleading quality, and he pushes back against Morgan’s grasp.

‘It’s okay, Reid.’ Morgan attempts to adopt a soothing tone, though he knows things are anything but peaceful. ‘We’re going to help you through this, okay?’

Reid nods fearfully. His awareness of the situation, of his surroundings, is increasing. He knows how bad things are, and he knows that they aren’t going to be getting better any time soon. Though he knows Morgan and Emily will do their best to help, neither of them is in perfect health. Through blurred eyes, he sees the fresh burns that adorn Morgan’s skin, the long gash that is half hidden by a collar. He sees Emily’s bruises, the way she quivers in spite of Morgan’s coat hanging limply off her shoulders.

But more potent than the injuries, he sees their looks of determination. It is a fire that burns through his confusion. These are the looks that assure him that everything will be okay. None of them know if it is false hope, or something else. They do know that if they break down, if their strength falters, then survival will become that much harder.

‘We should get some rest,’ suggests Morgan. He knows that they both slept briefly that afternoon, but if the bags under her eyes are any indication, she is still exhausted. He knows that he probably looks as bad as she does. ‘We’ll need to conserve as much energy as possible.’

Emily looks towards the door. ‘What if he comes back?’ The question lingers in the air. They can’t afford to deal in “whys” and “what ifs”. They can only deal with the certain, and what is certain right now is that if they don’t get any sleep, then their bodies will crash. The unsub will be free to do whatever he pleases, without denial, without resistance.

They crawl slowly into the bed on either side of Reid. Such proximity may be awkward, but it is necessary if they are to retain their body heat.

‘Sweet dreams,’ says Morgan sarcastically, but to no avail. Both Reid and Emily are already asleep.

 

*             *             *

David Rossi’s watch ticks over to 7pm. He and Hotch are in the morgue – at least, that is what Sheriff Ward called the tiny room. At best, it seems a glorified cellar. Only now are they seeing the body; the last hour has been spent viewing the case files for the previous two victims. They needed to start at the beginning.

‘He’s escalating,’ Rossi concludes upon viewing the body. If he were to touch it, he would feel the cold winter chill that consumed this man, that is consuming his colleagues.

‘What makes you say that?’ Ward cocks his head, looking at the body to see if he missed anything significant.

‘The torture is more extreme; this body has more extensive wounds. When is the M.E coming in?’

Ward scratches his head, uncertain. ‘It could be a while, in this weather.’

It all comes back to the weather. They cannot interview witnesses, nor visit crime scenes. The winter has washed it all away. The best they can do is wait until morning, where they can look at things in a new light.

Hotch frowns as he checks the time. Weather hazards aside, the rest of the team should be here by now. At the very least, they should have called. He tries contacting them again. This time, he is met with the demon that is voicemail. Three separate occurrences of voicemail.

He steps out of the morgue, and dials a new number. This number is associated with a certain technical analyst at a desk in Quantico, Virginia. If nothing else, she will be able to provide them with an electronic history of the victims. For now, though, all Hotch needs to know is the whereabouts of Spencer Reid, Emily Prentiss and Derek Morgan.

‘Winter weather advisory, how may I direct your call?’ There is a hint of humor in her voice, as if she checked Caller I.D. before answering. She knows very well who is calling her.

‘Garcia, it’s Hotch.’ He goes through the formalities anyway, as if adhering to the normal will somehow contradict the possibility that anything abnormal has occurred. He has a sinking feeling in his stomach.

‘What can I do you for, Boss-man?’ She is cheerful, entirely unaware of the fear and desperation that will soon come crashing down around them.

‘We got caught in the blizzard,’ he tells her in a slightly dejected tone of voice. ‘Morgan, Reid and Prentiss haven’t arrived yet. I need you to track the GPS of the SUV; tell me where they are.’

With polished orange nails, she strikes keys at lightning speed. The information takes just seconds to arrive at its destination, and several more seconds for her to comprehend it. ‘That’s strange,’ she says. Hotch’s heart skips a beat. Whenever Garcia, of all people, thinks that something is strange, something definitely _is_ strange.

‘Where were you when the blizzard hit?’ she asks. Hotch searches his memory banks for the name of the town that they were closest to. He makes an irritated noise when Garcia confirms his suspicions. The SUV hasn’t moved since the blizzard struck.

‘But that’s not the strange thing,’ she continues. ‘The car isn’t even on the road.’ Fear strikes her; could they have crashed in the chaos of the storm? She knows that Morgan is stubborn enough to move forward, even in the direst of circumstances. Did he convince them that it would be best to keep going? She can almost hear the sound of tires whirring as they attempt to grip ice. She can almost see hands gripping armrests as the SUV plunges into the swirl of whiteness. She can almost feel the pain of shards of glass piercing skin. She can almost taste the copious amounts of blood in her mouth. She can almost smell death.

‘I’ll find out what happened,’ Hotch assures her. She nods silently, forgetting that the Unit Chief cannot see her.

‘Thank-you,’ she whispers. ‘Oh, and Hotch?’ It seems too late to say it now; it is as if they have all been doomed from the very beginning.

‘Yes Garcia?’

‘Please be safe.’

*             *             *

_She stands on the edge of a cliff, shifting the soil with her bare feet. She looks out at the wide expanse of ocean; a uniformity of color. She looks down, sees the waves lapping at jagged rocks. She has the strangest urge to jump. To defy gravity, to feel as if she is flying. Somehow, she knows that the feeling will only last a few seconds. That euphoria will be overtaken by fear as she plummets towards the rocks._

_But what if she were to jump just over there? The rocks below are fewer in number. She would strike the water at a terrifying speed, but she would survive it. She had always been a strong swimmer; something her mother had insisted on. She moves along the cliffs, to the place at which her life begins, and ends. She takes a deep breath._

_The wind rushes past her. She has that feeling of euphoria. She waits for the fear to set in, but it never does. There is only a microsecond of pain as she plunges into the depths of the water. It’s ice cold, an unusual temperature this close to the coastline._

_Despite her confidences, the water seems to swallow her. She is encompassed in its deep, dark fathoms. It confuses her; it shouldn’t be this deep. She kicks against the raging waters, a battle of strengths. She knows that, though she is strong, she is not strong enough to fight a battle against Mother Nature herself. She will die before she wins that battle._

_But then, there’s a hand, pulling her out…_

_…_pulling her out of the bed. She is surprised, too shocked even, to scream at the strain against her broken bone. Neither Morgan nor Reid is awake, but she can sense one of them stirring slightly at the commotion. She braces herself against the floor with her good arm as her assailant lets go.

It is dark; she can’t find the energy to look at her watch and see what time it is. She doesn’t even have the energy to move from her position on the floor. But then, strength is all about going beyond your limits. Doing things you never thought you could do. She struggles to her feet, and looks into the eyes of the man who pulled her from the water.

_‘He’s going to throw you back in, and hold you head down,’ _a voice tells her. She doesn’t need voices to know that he isn’t here to bring coffee and cakes. He isn’t here for Morgan, or for Reid. He’s here for her.

_‘Sink or swim, Emily’ _the voice says. She almost rolls her eyes at it.

He grabs her uninjured arm, and pushes her towards the open door.

Sink or swim.

 


	6. Five Minutes to Midnight

Midnight

**Chapter Six**

Five Minutes to Midnight

*             *             *

_Dwell not upon thy weariness, thy strength shall be according to the measure of thy desire._

**Arab Proverb**

*             *             *

Upon hearing Garcia’s news, Hotch had immediately rounded up his remaining agents, and driven back to the spot where they had spent nine long hours just that day. It didn’t matter that it was three hours away. It didn’t matter that it was the middle of the night. It didn’t matter that the roads were still treacherous. Whichever way he had looked at it, Hotch had seen three agents in danger.

That is where he is now, standing beside an incapacitated SUV. By the light of his torch, he can see the bullet hole. He tries to see it objectively; see it as someone else’s SUV, as some other group of people who have disappeared without a trace in the middle of a blizzard.

‘It’s a tough angle,’ remarks Rossi. ‘You’d have to be a pretty good shot to hit the engine block of a car in a blizzard. Not to mention being game enough to stand in the middle of the road.’ Like Hotch, Rossi has held off on expressing any emotion. Internally, though, he has been putting pieces together in his head, and it’s a jigsaw that he doesn’t like in the least.

‘Hotch - our victims…all went missing around this area, didn’t they?’ He’s not one to look for reassurance that isn’t forthcoming, and now is no exception. He is looking for confirmation of a theory.

‘Yes.’ Hotch knows where Rossi is going with this, and he doesn’t like it.

‘You saw the body – you know he’s escalating as well as I do.’ He leaves the core of his theory unspoken; he knows that Hotch has already figured out what he is trying to say.

‘Three victims is a big jump,’ says Hotch, but he is not rationalizing; he is simply chronicling the extent of the escalation. It is unusual for such rapid escalation to occur so quickly.

He pulls out his phone, and calls Garcia. When he speaks, his voice is almost drowned out by the wind. While the blizzard itself is gone, the weather still remains depressingly gloomy. ‘Garcia, I need you to see if there are any similar cases involving torture and starvation that have matching criteria.’

‘I thought you were searching for the terrible trio?’ she asks him. The lilting of her words suggests that she already knows the conclusion he has come to, but she is not yet willing to admit it, much less acknowledge it to him.

‘We think the unsub might have taken them.’ It hurts him to tell her, and it hurts him even more to hear her response.

‘No, Hotch. Please…no.’ She thinks that maybe if it was just one of them, she could have coped; difficult though it was, she had pulled through Reid’s first kidnapping without too much emotion damage. But this – all three of them? She can’t pinpoint the kind of injustice they must have done to have the universe throw this at them. They are good people – they take down the bad guys, not the other way around. That’s the way the world _should_ work.

He doesn’t know how to reassure her. What can he say? “It’s okay, the other victims only died after weeks of torture?” They aren’t exactly the most comforting words.

‘We’ll find them,’ is the phrase he finally settles on. It is not an empty promise. Hotch knows that he will not rest until he finds the rest of his team. Will not rest until he finds the person who is responsible for this.

The unsub will come to regret the day that he wronged Aaron Hotchner.

*             *             *

Her screams haunt him.

His dreams – his nightmares – started six months after he joined the BAU. He had seen gruesome things before, both in Bomb Squad and in the Chicago Police Department. Even that wealth of experience did not prepare him for the horrors of the BAU. For two weeks, he had a recurring dream; severed limbs, and scorched bodies. A child’s scream as he burns to death. The prone form of a helpless woman as the knife is thrust into her heart. A man whipped until his back is nothing but a mess of bloody flesh. He could see their eyes in the moment before death, pleading for help, pleading to be saved. No matter how hard he tried, he could never save the victims – not in his dreams, anyway.

He cannot save her now; and this is no dream.

He knows that she was in the same position hours earlier. Listening on in agony as the unsub tortured him, brutalized him. He thinks that he would much prefer to return to that status quo – at least then he _knew_ what was happening, what was causing the screams, even if it caused him such monumental pain.

The sound of the door closing had jarred him fully from his sleeping state. It had taken him several moments to bite through the physical exhaustion and comprehend who he was, and, just as importantly, where he was. He had felt Reid’s body close to his, felt the rise and fall of the younger profiler’s chest. He tried to sit up, to look across over Reid. That was the point at which he realized that Emily was gone.

Shit. He had known she was already in bad shape; at the very least, her arm had definitely been broken. He was not confident of his own ability to set a bone, and even if he had been, there was nothing in the room to splint it with. Reid’s presence might have been some help, but it was too late to judge that now. He had taken her.

Ten minutes later, the screaming had started.

Surprisingly, Reid had slept through the whole thing. He is still sleeping now, the muffled screams doing nothing to raise him from his peaceful slumber. In spite of the newly rekindled addiction, Morgan almost envies him.

It is 1:27am. He has been living this waking nightmare on and off for three hours. Did his torture last that long? He suspects that it did, but even with a clear perception of time, he cannot be sure. Whilst being tortured, the body seems to enter a different universe altogether. Time lasts longer in some parts, and, after a certain amount of torment, one can no longer be certain that they are anchored in the real world. The mind becomes convinced that this is some hellish dimension, where pain and suffering are trivial occurrences. It is during the intermissions – the relished moments that are free of torture – that the mind regroups, convinces the body to keep fighting. Morgan knows that when a certain threshold is reached, the mind will no longer attempt to keep the body fighting. The body will fail, and the soul will escape into the ether. The stronger the person is, the longer they can hold out. He wonders if that is their unsub’s objective; to see just how long it takes for someone to die from this. To give up.

There is one thing he knows for sure; they won’t be giving up any time soon.

*             *             *

She had been in pain before he had even started the torture.

The chains that suspended from the ceiling were at such a height that her feet barely brushed the floor; all the strain was put upon her arms. Even in normal circumstances, this would have been painful. With a broken arm, it was excruciating. She could not temper the whimpers that escaped her. She could almost feel the snapped bone shifting with every slight move she made. She could almost feel it threatening to break through the skin. She still feels it now, but then, she also has a lot of other painful things to think about.

The cold bites into her bare skin. He had stripped her entirely from the waist upwards, and, though she doesn’t have much to be thankful for right now, she is glad that not all of her dignity had been ripped away. He is not a sexual sadist, but that isn’t to say that it has been a pleasant experience.

She knows that flagellation was once used as a form of punishment, but she can’t imagine what she could have done to deserve such punishment. Was standing up to the unsub to protect Reid provocation enough for this torture? Was the mere act of _existing_ enough? She doesn’t ask herself these questions, because at this point, she is in far too much pain.

The first strike of the whip had stunned her; he had been standing beyond her field of view, only realizing his actions when metal tip had torn through the flesh of her back. She had writhed in agony, which, in turn, caused further pain to her arm. Unexpected as it was, she had not had time to prepare herself.

Her scream would have shattered windows.

Though she had not known when the next strike would come, she did attempt to compartmentalize, to shut away that part of her that felt the pain.

It hadn’t helped in the slightest.

Now, he has stopped. Her back is a mess of blood and jagged flesh. It is difficult to imagine that there was uniformity there once; an expanse of pale, unmarked skin that will never be the same again. Even if she survives this, there will always be the scars to remind her.

She has not yet passed out from the pain, but neither is she fully aware. She is trapped in the space between the two states, unable to fully commit to either.

Her eyes blur, and she sees an endless field of blue-green. _Is that the ocean?_

_She feels herself being pulled under. Returning to the icy depths of the water. How easy it would be to let go of everything and just drown. She stops trying to stay afloat, and simply falls. Somewhere, closer to the surface of her conscious mind, she knows that in a relaxed position, the human body will usually stay naturally afloat. The unconscious mind, the part of her that is giving her these images, these dreams, ignores that fact. This is not about what is physically possible in the real world. This is a new world altogether._

_The darkness swallows her. She can no longer see the surface of the water, the sun shining through. She is in a deep, dark place. _

_Drowning._

He removes the lock that holds the chain to the ceiling. She slumps to the floor, landing awkwardly on her broken arm. She lets out a slight whimper, though it is nothing compared to the sounds she had elicited even just an hour before. The only acknowledgment of the pain she gives is a perpetual tremor.

Right now, for all intents and purposes, she is lost to this world.


	7. Four Minutes to Midnight

Midnight****

**Chapter Seven**

Four Minutes to Midnight

*             *             *

_Look well into thyself; there is a source of strength which will always spring up if thou wilt always look there._

**Marcus Aurelius Antoninus**

*             *             *

For at least half an hour now, there has been no screaming. He wonders if it is because he has stopped the torture, or because she can no longer make a sound. He is banking on it being the first one. He is hoping that the torture has stopped, because he needs the time to implement his plan. It isn’t a plan, really, more a collection of ideas loosely strung together. But for this “plan” to work, he needs the unsub to be otherwise preoccupied.

‘_He has to sleep sometime, doesn’t he?_’ Morgan thinks to himself. He doesn’t want to consider the possibility that there is more than one unsub, or that the torture has not stopped. It doesn’t matter; he’s going to do this regardless. It may be their only chance of escape.

‘Reid.’ He shakes the younger profiler awake. He hopes that the morphine has metabolized, that in spite of any cravings, Reid will be closer to his element. Right now, they need to push past the pain, to tap into the adrenaline. Soon the sympathetic division of his Autonomic Nervous System will be stimulated. The adrenal glands will secrete epinephrine, norepinephrine and steroid stress hormones. The flow of blood and nutrients to his muscles will increase.  His pupils will dilate. His blood pressure will rise. His body will prepare for strenuous activity. If these physiological symptoms were to persist – if the stress response was continuous – it would be considered highly detrimental, but right now, he needs them.

It’s fight or flight.

‘Whassit?’ Reid’s voice is slurred, from sleep rather than any adverse drug effects.

‘I need you to get up, Reid.’ That sentence alone has more seriousness in it than Reid has ever heard from Derek Morgan. No matter how many jokes he makes, how much he tries to lighten the mood, this is not a cakewalk. They won’t be sauntering out of this one unmarked.

Reid sobers almost immediately. Despite the throb of pain in his shoulder, and the throb of desire in his mind, he grasps the situation fairly quickly.

‘How long has she been gone?’

Morgan checks his watch, though he does not need to. He knows. He won’t ever forget.

‘Almost five hours.’ More than anything else, the tone of Morgan’s voice tells Reid exactly what happened in those five hours; that they need to move quickly.

Morgan gestures towards the heavy door that shuts them off from the rest of the house. ‘So how about it, Mr. Magician? Can you pick that lock?’

*             *             *

It’s three a.m, and not even a brick wall could slow Aaron Hotchner down right now. He’s pulling every string, milking every source. It would be a far more beneficial process if his contacts had any idea that the town of Keyser, West Virginia even existed. As it is, though, Garcia has discovered no less than a dozen cases with similar circumstances; bodies, tortured and starved. A shell of their former selves. It pains him to think that his agents – his friends – are going through that right now.

There is but one piece of good news that comes from these fresh case files. The locations of the dump sites give them enough information to give a geographical profile. Whoever this monster is, he hasn’t strayed far from his lair.

He has Garcia running the profile through the databases; white male in his forties, lives within a hundred mile radius of Keyser, sadist. He is well aware that individual files are never marked “sadist” or “murderer” – life isn’t that simple. It is merely a stepping stone. He wonders how much easier his job would be if things were categorized in such a way.

Under normal circumstances, Reid would be performing the geographical profile. Under normal circumstances, they might have even caught the unsub by now. While being three agents down gives them extra incentive to find their murderer, it also means that they have three less minds on the job.

He stares at the map, dots, pins and arrows all seeming to blend together. He’s running on very little energy, but he knows that he cannot sleep now. If he sleeps now, it is as though he is admitting defeat. He can’t do that – not this early in the game. He’s trying to do a dozen things; reevaluate the profile, finish up the geographical profile, go over what they know, see if there is anything he missed.

Rossi hands his superior agent a coffee, and leans against the table beside him. They’ve been through a lot together. Good times and bad. In spite of Rossi’s long absence from the BAU, their friendship had not been significantly damaged. It is enough for Hotch to know that he is there now.

‘I can’t lose another agent,’ Hotch admits eventually. He is not referring to the damage it does to the team dynamics. He is referring to the damage to himself. To his own guilt. Though Elle Greenaway and Jason Gideon are not dead, they might as well be for all the damage the BAU did to them. He wonders why they all still do this, even knowing the pain it could cause. It all boils down to one thing.

His team are good people.

They will make the sacrifice; fight the good fight, no matter the consequences. It isn’t fair that this should happen to them. That there are murdering scum that go free every day, and yet it is always the honorable who suffer.

Hotch will not concede defeat. He has been fighting injustice his whole life, in one form or another.

He is not going to give up.

Ever.

*             *             *

_She has the vaguest understanding of a world outside this darkness. She hears strange, muffled sounds. They permeate her consciousness, but she cannot shake the feeling that they come from another time, another place._

_‘_Emily!’_ The world seems to clear somewhat at the sound of his voice. The darkness begins to fall, softly, gently. There is something pulling her up slowly, a hand grasping hers. She pulls back. She remembers what happened last time she was pulled from this icy tomb; pain, destruction. She cannot let that happen again._

_‘_Emily._’ It’s a different voice this time, but it is no less penetrating. What is it saying? Is that her name? She feels some kind of familiarity. She is pulled back again, a gesture that is this time accompanied by agonizing pain. Somehow, though, she realizes that the hand is trying to protect her from the pain, rather than instigating it. She lets out an involuntary gasp, and seems surprised when the water does not sink into her lungs._

_Is this place even real? Why does she have no sense of reality? Her conscious mind reasons with her – _if you have to ask whether or not it’s real, then it probably isn’t real. _That is not the kind of talk she is used to in this place. She’s floating beyond concepts of logic and rationalization. What is this world beyond the fathoms? Why is it so complicated?_

_She opens her eyes, and realizes that the darkness is gone._

_It was in her mind._

_Unfortunately, the pain wasn’t._

*             *             *

He rushes to her side, the world falling away around him. Right now, nothing else matters.

‘Emily!’ He does not need to move her to see how extensively she had been tortured. She is lying half on her side, her back exposed to the air. He cannot individuate the wounds; blood and flesh blend together in one large, ugly mess. He finds her hand, squeezes it. She pulls away; it is the first sign of life she has given.

Reid kneels at her other side. He too speaks her name, as if trying to rouse her from this state of quasi-unconsciousness. Her eyes flicker, and she gives a protracted moan, unwilling tears brushing her cheeks.

Reid stands, but he does not take his eyes off her form. He needs to see what kind of weapon was used. His eyes linger – perhaps a little too long – on several needles that line one of the tables. They are not hypodermic, but that does not seem to matter; the association is inevitable.

There, at the far end of the room. Majestic in its simplicity. He runs a finger along the leather, touch culminating against metal. It remains uncleaned, still stained with the blood of its last victim.

‘Did you know that in Roman times, flagellation was often used as a prelude to crucifixion? Whips with metal or bone tips were used to send the victim into a state of hypovolemic shock.’ No temperament of eagerness accompanies his exposition. Right now, he wishes that he did not know so much about torture practices, about the unimaginable pain that she has been through.

She tries to sit up, though it is obviously causing her discomfort. ‘I’m fine,’ she says in an attempt at firmness. Her voice shakes. Though she is bared before them, she makes no attempt at modesty. Her right arm hangs limply, drawing Morgan’s attention. The bone has broken through the skin, though due to the paleness of her complexion, at first it is difficult to see the contrast.

‘Reid,’ he says, his voice exasperated. ‘How good are your medical skills?’ He knows that they are all in need of medical attention. A private room and three meals a day would be preferable, but right now, all they have is Spencer Reid, genius for hire.

Reid knows that there are medical facilities in this house. His own wound had been stitched up efficiently; the kind of work that was not done by an amateur.

She stands, accepting only the slightest help from Morgan. The movement seems to stimulate her. He knows that she is in far more pain than she is willing to let on. ‘I can walk,’ she says, though she says it with gritted teeth. ‘With Reid’s help,’ she adds. At Morgan’s look, she elaborates. ‘We can’t move around defenseless. You need to find the guns. I never learnt how to knife fight, and I’m sure as hell not learning now.’ She gives a choked laugh.

He nods, knowing she is right. He hugs Reid awkwardly, and then turns to Emily. He wants to show some form of affection, but cannot do so without aggravating her injuries. She takes the initiative, putting her left arm around him. It is a symbolic gesture, one that they all draw strength from. It lets them know that there is something worth fighting for.

‘Be careful,’ Reid warns his friend. ‘And don’t go acting the hero. Find the guns, and get back to us as soon as possible.’ He is not used to this form of leadership, but he knows that someone needs to pull Morgan back sometimes. Hotch isn’t here, and Emily’s energy to talk had been depleted by her last words she spoke.

Reid retrieves Emily’s clothes from the corner of the room, but he does not give them to her yet. He needs to clean and bandage the wound before she can redress. He puts her left arm around his shoulder, and she cannot suppress the groan of pain as they step forward.

‘It’s okay,’ he tells her. ‘It will all be over soon.’

And somehow, in amongst the pain, in amongst the cravings, and in amongst the sheer madness that seems to define this day, he believes it.


	8. Three Minutes to Midnight

Midnight

**Chapter Eight**

Three Minutes to Midnight

*             *             *

_Victory belongs to the most persevering._

**Napoleon Bonaparte**

*             *             *

Sheriff Ware knocks timidly on the wall. There is no door that separates the BAU agents from the rest of the station, but he does not want to incur the wrath of Aaron Hotchner by walking in unannounced. He sees the fire in those eyes, the darkness that this man is capable of. He does not want to get on this man’s bad side.

Hotch gives the Sheriff an annoyed look, and the Sheriff tries very hard not to feel offended; Supervisory Special Agent Hotchner is feeling the stress right now.

‘What is it?’ He does not like it when his train of thought is interrupted, though, in this case, it makes little difference. He has already been over the facts, and he has found nothing.

‘The Medical Examiner arrived about half an hour ago,’ Ware explains. It does not surprise him that Hotch had not noticed the arrival. For hours, the man had been engrossed in his examination of the words upon the whiteboard.

‘And?’ asks Hotch, still somewhat frustrated. He hopes that that wasn’t the only news the Sheriff had. But then, he remembers the old adage; no news is good news. If the Sheriff is coming to inform him of three corpses found, then he knows he would prefer having been interrupted for nothing.

‘I’ll let her explain it,’ is all Ware says. He leads Hotch to the tiny, freezing room. He sees a woman in white scrubs, squinting inquisitively at what appears to be a kidney. Hotch knows that if he were to ask, he would find that this woman – Edith Marshall, Ware introduces her as – would have a colourful history, full of interesting tales to tell. He knows just by looking at her that she is a person of some mystery. And right now, he doesn’t care.

‘So what is it that you wanted me to see?’ Hotch asks. Edith cocks her head, assessing him silently. After several seconds – seconds in which Hotch’s temper builds – she apparently decides that she can tell him. Telling him comes in the form of pointing to a scar on the left shoulder, just above the Y-incision.

‘A scar.’ Hotch wonders if he is missing something.

‘Yes, yes. It’s a scar. But that’s the thing.’ Edith taps her nose with a gloved finger. ‘Recent scarring. Two weeks at maximum. This baby’s fresh. And professionally treated, for that matter.’

‘So our unsub has some medical experience?’ Hotch wonders aloud, though he is not talking to anyone who can sufficiently add to the profile. Under Hotch’s orders, both JJ and Rossi are taking a catnap; enough to keep them on their feet for the rest of the day, but not too much that they feel they are neglecting their duties. Hotch himself cannot sleep. He can never sleep in these circumstances.

‘Did you find any recently treated wounds on the first two victims?’ Hotch asks. It’s all about the profile now.

‘Nada.’

Escalation. The unsub starts by torturing half a dozen victims. Then he realizes that by treating the wounds he makes, the torture will last longer. His sadistic measures are growing. He is looking to find new, better ways of causing pain. Hotch knows that this is bad news for whoever lies at his mercy. He knows that they have to find this unsub _immediately_, before he loses his agents forever.

*             *             *****

Emily sits on the operating table as Reid runs a lithe, gloved finger across her shoulder. She shivers, as much from the cold as from his touch. He relinquishes contact suddenly. She gives a laugh, though there is little humor in it.

‘Now’s no time for prudishness, Reid.’ She speaks with gritted teeth. She wants him to get this over with, so she can attempt to rid herself of the chill that has consumed her. He has nervously avoided staring her in the eye, instead focusing on the multitude of wounds that adorn her back.

‘This is going to sting,’ he admits. He needs to clean the area before he can bandage it. With this much damage, the pain involved will not be minor. He hands her a piece of tubing to bite down on. She knows she cannot scream.

For those agonizing minutes, the burning sensation is all she can feel. The rest of her might as well not even exist, because all she can feel is that pain. Reid feels his fingers losing circulation as she squeezes his hand tightly. She is tense beneath his touch.

When it finally stops, the tubing falls to the ground, freshly marked by her teeth. She lets out a gasp. Blurs of color spin past her; it takes a while for her to see the world for what it is once again. She feels as though she has just been swimming.

He moves to get the bandages, and she holds up a hand, breathing heavily. ‘Give me a second.’ She knows that if she starts swimming again – for the hundredth time today, it seems –she will surely drown.

*             *             *****

Morgan tiptoes quietly across the wooden floorboards. He has tried half a dozen rooms so far, and is yet to locate their missing possessions. He knows that the guns will be somewhere, badges and shoes too. Those are the items that had been on their person at the time of abduction. Their other belongings – ready bags, wallets, phones – may still be in the SUV, sitting in silence. He wonders if their disappearance has been discovered yet. He feels so shut off from the outside world, and yet he can’t help but reassure himself in the fact that he _knows_ that the team is coming after them. He _knows _Hotch, Rossi, JJ and Garcia will not stop until he, Reid and Prentiss are found. He knows that he would not stop if the tables were turned. He would fight until his dying breath.

Because that’s what you do for family.

They all have their own real families; mothers, sisters, cousins, nephews. The relationships forged within the BAU run far deeper than blood. It is a bond that cannot be forged by nature alone. It is a bond of friendship, of shared hardship. Profilers or not, these are the only people who Morgan knows that truly understand him.

He knows that he is willing to take the risk of waking the unsub to save his family.

Some semblance of luck is in his favour, though. The next room he opens holds the jackpot. Three Glocks lay on a table, clips and badges beside them. Three pairs of shoes; his and Emily’s boots and Reid’s brown lace-ups. He takes a look around the room and, after a moment, realizes. This is not simply a convenient place to store their belongings. This is a trophy room.

He shivers involuntarily, and it is not just because of the cold. He imagines the unsub as a kind of macabre game hunter, hanging stuffed mounts on the walls. Unlike the game hunter, though, the unsub tortures before he lets his victims succumb to death.

Morgan gathers the items up, repeating a mantra that seems to soothe him:

‘_This is one set of trophies that this sick son of a bitch will never get._’

*             *             *****

The bandages wrap around her torso from her waist to just below her arms. They are almost an article of clothing in themselves. He helps her put on her shirt over the dressings and the mangled mess that is her arm.

‘There’s nothing I can do about the arm,’ he tells her apologetically. ‘Open fractures need surgery – something I’ve never taken the opportunity to learn.’ He sounds forlorn, as if taking lessons in surgery had been something on his “to do” list.

‘Do you want painkillers?’ he asks, gesturing towards a cabinet on the left side of the room. He speaks casually, as if prescription drugs are just an everyday thing, but she knows they are not. She sees the hungering look in his eyes, no matter how much he tries to hide it. She sees the shaking of his fingers.

‘I’ll be fine,’ she tells him. With those words, he seems to ease somewhat. As if her declining them made it that much easier for him to do so as well.

They both tense at the sound of footsteps. Booted footsteps. Morgan had not been wearing shoes when he left, so unless his mission had been successful, they are about to enter a whole world of trouble. Reid grabs at the nearest medical instrument he can find, which, to his dismay, is a speculum. He brandishes it wildly at the opening door nonetheless.

‘Whoah!’ Morgan steps back quickly, avoiding the metal object that almost hits him in the face. It had not been as difficult to find the medical facility in the house. Though Reid and Emily were quiet, he had still been able to single out their hushed whispers in amongst the silence.

He passes out his findings; first their weapons, then the shoes, and finally, almost as an afterthought, their badges. His stomach growls, breaking the silence that he had not even realized was looming over them.

‘Those pickles are looking pretty good right about now,’ says Emily in a frustrated tone. She is attempting to put on her shoe one-handed, but stops when she realizes that both Morgan and Reid are holding back a laugh.  It is that same laugh that has accompanied any joke made in the past day; things seem so hopeless that anything is funny, and yet they cannot bring themselves to fully commit to the positive emotions.

‘Could one of you give me a hand with these?’ She holds up the boot in defeat. With its addition, they find themselves ready to explore, to find a way to escape the madness that has consumed them.

At least, they would be, if the unsub weren’t standing silently at the door, watching them curiously.


	9. Two Minutes to Midnight

Midnight

**Chapter Nine**

Two Minutes to Midnight

*             *             *

_Man is the only animal whose desires increase as they are fed; the only animal that is never satisfied._

**Henry George**

*             *             *

He watches them, intrigued. Even after just twenty-four hours, his other victims had been blubbering messes. Some of them were strong, yes, but none of them have the same glint in the eye that these three have. The same appreciation for life. He thinks that the only way to truly appreciate life is to have this close connection with death. He wonders how many people they see dead every week, how many times they fall to the brink, only to be pulled back by their colleagues. It is a challenge, he admits. They aren’t “progressing” as quickly as he would like. The screams are one thing, but he wants to see utter despair in their eyes. Or at least one set of eyes.

He thinks he could probably set that off; kill one of them – two, maybe – and see the reaction. The pain, the guilt, that utter despair that he has been looking for. Because somehow, the physical torture isn’t enough anymore. He needs to see the tears of anguish, the hopelessness at knowing they will never make it out alive, that their friends did not make it out alive.

He does not have time to ruminate further, because a pair of dark eyes has just caught on to his presence.

Game on.

*             *             *

Aaron Hotchner would never willingly admit to driving like a madman. At best, he would grudgingly accept the rather close relationship that he shared with the gas pedal. It has been forty-three minutes since Garcia ran the newest parameter through the system. Thirty-nine and a half minutes since one result was returned. Thirty-eight minutes since he jumped in that driver’s seat. This is a circumstance in which his connections become useful; he needs a warrant by the time he reaches this house in the middle of nowhere. A tiny slip of paper that gives him permission to kick down a door and, if necessary, put two bullets into a sadist’s chest. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t itching to pull the trigger.

Under normal circumstances, Hotch might have considered himself a compassionate man. He tried to stay objective, to see cases from an unbiased perspective. He could empathise with victims and unsubs alike. Of course, it’s always harder when it’s one of your own, or in this case, three of his own.  Three people that did their part in keeping him anchored. These people – this family – are the only ones keeping him anchored. He thinks that if he lost them, he would lose himself; in the job and in the search for justice.

Sirens blare. He knows that if he were not on official business, he would have been breaking at least a dozen road rules. Even now, with the SUV going as fast as he dares to take it, it will be at least half an hour before he reaches the house. In the front passenger seat, Rossi is unperturbed by the sudden jerks in every which direction as Hotch overtakes other vehicles. Even the pre-dawn darkness does not seem to worry him. He understands the urgency of the situation. It has not yet been a full day, but they are all hyperaware of the horrors that the previous victims had undergone in such a short space of time. There are much more important things to worry about than the possibility of dying in a car wreck.

None of them bring up that dreaded possibility; the notion that the person whose name Garcia found – God, he can’t even remember the name – is not the person they are looking for. That there is someone else out there who has free reign over the fate of Morgan, Prentiss and Reid.

Rossi laments silently at the focused look on Hotch’s face. It is a look he has seen many times before.

Today, failure is not an option.

*             *             *

Morgan remembers his days at the FBI Academy. A rigorous 21 week course, the training includes everything from leadership skills to driving techniques. Two areas Derek Morgan found himself excelling in were marksmanship and self-defence. It takes him a split second to realize that gunfire in such close quarters at such short notice can only lead to trouble. Thus, he decides upon a tactic that has worked wonders for him throughout his colourful career.

He tackles the unsub in a flying leap.

The fight is fairly matched, and at this point in time, Morgan has a slight advantage. He struggles against the unsub’s attempts at escape; he knows that this fight will not be over soon.

‘Get out of here!’ he yells. Reid and Emily move forward defiantly, unwilling to leave him to the unsub. Their weapons are pointed at the fray, but they will not take a shot in amongst the chaos. It is the same reason for which they have not intervened with their own punches and kicks. The two fall backwards into a gurney, leaving the doorway clear.

‘We’re not leaving you,’ says Emily. She holds the gun with her left hand, but it is for show rather than anything else.

He speaks fast, not wanting to be distracted. ‘I don’t want you to leave me here, I want you to get _help_,’ he says. If his voice sounds somewhat irritated, it is because the unsub is trying to get a hold of his neck. ‘GO!’ he yells, ripping the hand from his windpipe. He has regained the advantage, and it is enough to convince them to leave. He knows that if they were to get involved, it would only end badly; neither of them is in any shape for such strenuous physical activity.

Satisfied that they have left them to fight this fight, he returns his full concentration to the man who is attempting to punch a hole through his torso. He is expending all his energy to fight off this man, and yet he knows that it will not be enough. His gun is out of reach. His body is in pain. He knows he needs to keep fighting, if only it is just to let Reid and Emily get away.

He lasts ten minutes. It is ten awkward minutes, and he knows that if he survives, his body will ache for days. Barely conscious, he stares into the face of his attacker. He knows that if he wasn’t recovering from torture, wasn’t half starved, wasn’t freezing, he probably could have taken this man on and won. Now, though, he feels he has somehow let his friends down. His feelings are solidified by the unsub’s next words. Though he is sinking into darkness, the words strike him harshly.

‘I am going to kill one of them now. And then, I will make you watch as I torture the other one slowly to death. And then, _I _will watch as you go crazy with guilt. The things you shouldn’t have done, the things you could have done. All the different ways you could have saved their lives.’

He grins wickedly at the pained look on Morgan’s face. Then, he takes a scalpel from the nearest cupboard, and plunges it into the profiler’s leg.

He doesn’t want this one getting away.

*             *             *

They find a cell phone in the old, wooden house, but, as luck would have it, there is no reception. They make the silent decision to leave the house, to venture into the outside world. That is, as long as the blizzard has stopped. They open the last door, the only thing that stands between them and potential freedom. They are met with a sea of white, visible even in the darkness.

It is not snowing presently, a fact for which they will be eternally grateful. If Reid were to take a guess, he would estimate that the temperature has risen significantly since they were last outside. He is not focused on the minutiae of meteorology at this point in time, though. He’s looking for a tiny bar on the screen of an unfamiliar cell phone.

Emily trudges a zigzagging path through the snow, looking for a landmark, anything that can tell them just where they are. As far as she knows, they’re probably still in West Virginia, but that doesn’t narrow it down much.

‘Is that a river?’ she calls out to Reid. She can hear the sound of running water; one large enough to have not been affected by the blizzard. Surely that’s a starting point. She follows the sound, hoping that it will be significant enough to pinpoint their location.

‘_Is that a bar? It’s not a mark on the screen? No, it’s a bar._’ In his haste to make the call, he fumbles the number several times.

‘It’s ringing!’ he calls out excitedly. Emily gives a half smile, standing at the cliff’s edge. She watches the raging waters beneath her. Reid is the one with seemingly unlimited geographical knowledge. She can’t tell one river apart from the next, especially not at God knows what time in the morning.

It rings once. Twice. And then...

*             *             *

The sound of his phone ringing causes Hotch to add just a tiny bit more pressure to the gas, as if it is some form of death knell. Rossi sees an unfamiliar number on the screen. As if on instinct, he answers it anyway.

‘Rossi?’

-              -              -

Reid almost collapses in joy at the sound of Rossi’s voice. ‘Rossi!’ he finds himself yelling, though the situation does not call for anything louder than a regular speaking voice. Emily stares over at him, not wanting to let the hope wash over her. Even if he has managed to get through, that doesn’t mean they’re safe. There’s still an unsub inside. She wishes above anything else that Morgan has beaten the crap out of him, but part of her says otherwise. Part of her told him that leaving that room would be the last time she saw Morgan alive. It hurt her to do so. It almost killed her. But she knows she had to, if any of them have a chance at survival.

-              -              -

‘Reid!’ His voice almost mirrors that of the person he is talking to. ‘Reid, can you tell me where you are?’

Hotch takes his eyes off the road for a fleeting second. ‘_It can’t be over yet, can it?_’ He’s been building up to the grand finale, and stopping now will send him reeling, case solved or not.

‘Can you tell me where you are?’

-              -              -

‘I...I’m not sure. My recollection of the day is a little fuzzy.’ Morgan had given him a brief rundown of events as he picked the lock with shaking fingers. ‘Morgan said...it was maybe...two hours between when we got ambushed and when he woke up.’ He doesn’t realize how tired he sounds, how shaky his voice is. ‘I...please.’ He does not finish. He can’t finish. He lets the word hang in the air, knowing that it will have more impact than a formal request for help.

She sees him, sees his near breakdown in the middle of this field of snow. She wants to go help him, but she can’t. She has seen something else. A dark figure, almost cloaked by the darkness. If it weren’t for the snow, she would not have seen him until he was much closer. It isn’t Morgan, she knows that much. Morgan definitely would have called out to them by now.

She draws her weapon with her uninjured arm, trying to steady it at the approaching figure. ‘Reid!’ she calls out. She can’t seem to keep her hand still; she realizes at that point – in spite of the coat – that she is still shivering.

Her finger tightens around the trigger.

-              -              -

He hears Emily’s voice calling out in the background. It isn’t a greeting call, it’s a warning call. She is warning him of some approaching danger.

Then, he hears the sound of a single gunshot.

-              -              -

Somewhere, in the darkness, Emily Prentiss falls.


	10. One Minute to Midnight

Midnight

**Chapter Ten**

One Minute to Midnight

*             *             *

_To the soul, there is hardly anything more healing than friendship._

**Thomas Moore**

*             *             *

Seconds after Rossi had answered the phone, JJ had herself called Garcia. A trace on the line will tell them whether or not they are going to the right place. She keeps her gaze on Rossi, trying, with her – admittedly, limited – profiling skills, to ascertain the graveness of the situation.

‘Reid!’ Rossi yells into the phone. The sound of the gunshot had driven a metaphorical stake into his heart. He would not be able to bear it if they were to lose the game this close to the end.

‘Emily!’ The sound of Reid’s voice gives Rossi mixed feelings at both extremes. Relief at the fact that Reid seems to be unhurt, and unbridled terror at the fact that Emily quite possibly is.

Even a year ago, he would not have considered himself to have a close relationship with the rest of the team. In his days at the BAU, profilers worked alone. Sometimes he thinks it’s better that way; you don’t form attachments, don’t get so worked up when you realize that one of your colleagues is in danger. You don’t mourn so much when they are taken from you.

Then, David Rossi remembers the good times; the satisfaction he got from ambushing a suspect in interrogation with Emily, from giving a lecture to newbies with Reid, from taking down an unsub with Morgan. He does not want to lose that.

There is almost a minute of just ambient noises from Reid’s end of the phone; footsteps, heavy breathing, a thump. Then, Rossi hears a new set of footsteps, growing louder as they draw closer to the phone. The call ends.

‘We’re going to the right place,’ JJ says quietly, hanging up. In the back seat, she cannot determine the expression on her superiors’ faces. From the sound of heavy breathing, though, she determines that they need the reassurance. The next call she makes is to the ambulance following them; she needs to know that they’re close behind.

They are twenty minutes away.

*             *             *

When she had pulled the trigger, she had been expecting a bang. She had been expecting the firing pin to strike the bullet. She had been expecting the heat and the muzzle flash that accompanied a bullet being expelled from the chamber. She had been expecting the unsub to either find himself at the receiving end of the bullet, or to be startled enough that she could take further action.

When she pulls the trigger, nothing happens.

‘Fuck,’ she mutters to herself. She edges backwards slightly, seeing a shadowed arm rise in the darkness.

‘You didn’t expect me to leave the guns intact, did you?’ he asks her softly. She knows that he is about to reciprocate her efforts, and that they will succeed where hers failed. She will feel the bullet strike her through the chest. She will see the blood spurt out, tiny droplets staining the snow. There will be pain, numbness, and then, finally, nothing.

Anticipating this imminent death, she takes another step backwards. It is not until she is falling that she realizes that the ground behind her is strangely absent. That she is, in fact, falling backwards over the edge of the cliff.

A loud bang sounds, resonating in the air. He is a second too late.

‘_At least you didn’t get shot_,’ a tiny voice says.

All these thoughts disappear as she plunges into the icy currents below.

*             *             *

He does not see her fall, but he hears the shot. And when he turns, she is no longer there.

‘Emily!’ He runs in the direction of where he last saw her, attempting to draw his weapon at the same time. He is conflicted. Wanting to both save her, and protect himself. As it turns out, both desires are futile.

His gun no longer works. In the small room of the house, they barely had enough time to check the chambers. There are bullets inside, but he suspects that the problem lies elsewhere. He tosses it to the ground. It is no longer of any use to him. He does not have time to wonder if these are his last seconds on Earth, because before he can think, before he can take a single step, the tranquilizer dart hits him square in the chest.

He is graced with a few brief seconds of consciousness before the darkness rushes up to meet him.

*             *             *

She gasps involuntarily, a reflex action associated with immersion in such cold water. It is deep enough that even with the velocity of the fall taken into account, she does not hit the bottom. From above, the current of the water seemed stronger, but now she’s here, she realizes that it’s a gentle flow, not yet augmented by the melted snow. Of course, in her weakened state, it does not take much to overcome her. Her brain takes a second to catch up, and she knows that she needs to stop panicking. It’s the ones who panic that end up drowning.

Drowning...

...It would be so simple just to let go. She is already at the end of her rope. She has been running on empty for a while now, the survival of herself and of her friends the only incentive for her to keep going. ‘_It hardly matters now,_’ she can’t help but think. ‘_Reid and Morgan are probably dead._’ She realizes then that she is surrounded by darkness; is that just a trick of the mind, or is she really drowning?

She feels relaxed, almost opposite to what she thinks she should be feeling. She’s dying – she should feel something other than such tranquillity. She has heard that drowning becomes one of the more relaxed forms of death, after the panic has stopped, after the body has slowed down. This thought does not actually enter her mind; the flow of blood to her brain has slowed. It is peripheral vasoconstriction, the second stage in the body’s attempt to preserve itself upon immersion in such cold waters. It is preparing for the endgame.

She no longer has any perception of reality. The images, the colours she sees, are all an illusion of the mind. She has never seen such things; a beauty that transcends the realm of mortal possibilities. She would not be entirely displeased to find herself stuck in this state of limbo for eternity. That is its purpose, to ease her path. As Reid would tell her, it is not spiritual in origin. When the brain senses that death is imminent, the pineal gland releases amounts of the chemical Dimethyltryptamine. A naturally occurring hallucinogen, it causes the mind to see things, to feel things that are so much greater than anything experienced in life.

Her body floats lifelessly in the water.

*             *             *

Morgan tries to stem the flow of blood from his leg. It doesn’t seem to stop. He knows that the femoral artery can’t have been nicked; otherwise he would have bled out almost ten minutes ago.

He’s in a new room (_‘How many rooms does this house have?_’), the only furnishing being a monitor that hangs from the ceiling. The screen is black, and Morgan stares at it, as if waiting for some image to appear.

And eventually, one does, though it is not an image that Morgan is particularly happy to see.

He sees Reid, alive, strapped to a chair. Does that mean Emily is dead? He pushes the thought out of his mind. He does not want to think about that right now. He will consider her alive for as long as possible, to protect his own sanity.

He’s sitting here, waiting for the end. And it surprises him completely when the door swings open.

*             *             *

Reid finds himself being shaken awake. He tries to turn away, but finds that he is secured to a chair, his forearms facing upwards.

He breathes as if he has not done so in an eternity. Then, he remembers.

‘Emily...where...?’ It is painful to talk, but he gets the feeling that his message was conveyed with just those words. He awaits the answer fearfully.

‘She’s dead,’ says the unsub shortly.

‘No,’ he says. ‘No!’ He can’t – won’t – believe that Emily is dead. Even having seen the aftermath of the events in the snow, he does not accept it.

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he says casually. ‘In a few days you’ll be dead too. But not before I finish having my fun.’ He’s tapping something – is that a needle? Reid realizes all too soon what is going on. He struggles in his bonds, trying desperately to move his arms away from the needle. He is not going to let this happen again.

‘You disappointed me,’ the unsub says. He won’t be injecting any time soon; he needs to make his profound speech. Though his mind is fuzzy, Reid thinks he understands this unsub. Understands the methods behind his madness. ‘Even after relapse, you persevered. You wouldn’t let the addiction rule you. You wanted to make it through this clean, even if it killed you. Do you know how _boring _that is for me? So it’s come to this. I’ve got your little friend watching on the monitor. He’ll watch as you claw your eyes out for just one more fix.’

Reid takes a deep breath. He can make it through this; he knows morphine isn’t as strong as the Dilaudid was. If he kicked that habit, he can kick this one too.

‘What was your drug of choice?’ the unsub asks, almost in a conversational tone. He tightens the strap around Reid’s upper arm, preparing the veins for injection. Reid does not answer. He will not pander to this man’s wishes. ‘An opioid, sure, but which one? Heroin? Codeine? Dilaudid? Come on, Supervisory Special Agent Doctor Spencer Reid. Tell me, and I’ll let you ask me a question.’

‘Dilaudid,’ says Reid, eventually.

‘Well let’s try you on Fentanyl, then. Much, much stronger.’ Reid gasps as the needle plunges into his arm. He can almost feel the liquid squirting into his veins, so much more potent than anything he has experienced. ‘Ask your question.’

‘What’s your name?’ He knows the profile. He knows that this man is a sadist, intent on reassuring his victims of his power. He knows that this man was most probably abused as a child, and his torturous ways are an outlet of that helplessness. The one thing he does not know is this man’s name.

He seems confused by the question. Distracted, almost; which is exactly what Reid is going for. He sees the movement out of the corner of his eye.

He flinches at the sound of the gunshots, and cannot help but watch as the unsub stares down at the two holes in his chest. ‘I...’ he puts a finger to the holes in disbelief. He sinks slowly to the floor, dead.

Hotch steps forward, reholstering his weapon. Neither of them mention the needle sticking out of Reid’s arm, the consequences it will have. Right now, they are just happy to see each other.

He loosens the bonds, helps Reid out of the chair. He shakes as he stands. He can feel the drug coursing through his veins. In one moment, a total destruction of what he has building up for a year and a half. The morphine he probably could have dealt with, but this?

The sight of Hotch pulls him from his reverie. He needs to find Morgan, Emily. To see that they are alright. Then, he remembers the unsub’s words, like a knife to his heart.

‘Need to find them,’ he says, trying to push past Hotch. He needs to know that Morgan is alive, at the very least.

Hotch holds up a single hand, and that is enough to slow the weakened profiler’s progress. ‘We’ve got Morgan,’ he says calmly. ‘He was bleeding out; the unsub stabbed him in the thigh. But the paramedics are looking at him. They say he should be fine.’

Reid sees the look in Hotch’s eyes, knows what the Unit Chief will say before he even says it. ‘We haven’t found Emily yet.’

‘Outside...’ says Reid. ‘We were outside. She said there was a river...Then there was a gunshot, and I couldn’t see her anymore. He said she was dead, Hotch. She can’t be dead, can she?’ He stares at Hotch in horror. The Unit Chief struggles to remain stoic at Reid’s words. He suppresses the desire to break down as he reaches for his radio.

‘Rossi, it’s Hotch.’

*             *             *

Hotch stays with Reid, JJ with Morgan. Rossi is leading the search outside. Hotch knows that if he had gone, and the findings had been negative, he probably would have broken down completely, regardless of whether or not anyone was watching. If it had been Reid or Morgan, he would have done the same thing. Right now, he can’t stand to lose anyone.

Torch beams intersect in the darkness; anyone watching from a distance might have suspected that an alien abduction was at work. The truth was far more foreboding.

David Rossi is the first to reach the cliff edge. He shines the flashlight down, and at first, he sees nothing. Then, further along the bank – is that a flash of pale in amongst the darkness? He edges closer, and confirms his suspicions. Yes, it’s a flash of pale – a flash of pale skin, to be more specific.

The cliff merges with the bank several feet from where he is, several more feet from where she’s floating. He can just reach her without having to dive in himself.

She doesn’t move when he pulls her from the water. He’s already called for the paramedics, though he doesn’t realize just how panicked his voice had been. He sees the paleness of her skin – so pale it’s almost blue. He feels the chill of her skin. He puts a finger against her neck. There is no pulse. There is no rise and fall of the chest.

That is all David Rossi has time to determine before a paramedic pushes him out of the way.


	11. Midnight

Midnight

**Chapter Eleven**

Midnight

*             *             *

_Storms make oaks take deeper root._

**George Herbert**

*             *             *

Morgan struggles to sit up as he hears people rushing about him. A paramedic working on his leg holds him back, tells him to sit still before he does more damage. Morgan ignores the paramedic. He hears the shouts, and he fears he knows what is going on. Beside him, JJ is staring off into the distance, though Morgan cannot make out what she is staring at.

‘What’s going on, JJ?’ He grits his teeth through the pain, and his eyes refocus. Is that Hotch running past? It is. Reid is just behind him, moving much slower, but with no less determination.

‘Please, I need...’ He stands up, ignoring the protests of the paramedic. ‘I need to see.’ He hobbles in the direction of the action, moving a little faster once JJ gives him a shoulder to lean on. She knows she can’t talk him out of going over there.

His path is marked by the droplets of his blood in the snow. He is losing blood fast. But he cannot stop now. He needs to know that this is over. That Emily and Reid are both alive. He knows he will still feel the guilt, but it’s not as much as the guilt he will feel if she is dead.

He tries to push through the crowd of people, but they disappear as if smoke. His visual perception is playing tricks with him. He slips from JJ’s grasp, and collapses to the ground less than twenty feet from where Hotch, Rossi and Reid stand in a semi-circle. He notices that Reid looks worse for wear – he had seen those few seconds of video footage, but he had not seen what the unsub had put him through. Whatever it is, it does not seem to be immediately affecting the young profiler. He pushes himself up, trying – and failing – to stand. JJ pulls him up, and puts his arm around hers once more. They join the fray, the tense atmosphere not slipping past them unnoticed.

She looks dead, lying there, an image that the two paramedics beside her are attempting to rectify. He isn’t looking at them, though, he’s looking at her face, watching for any signs of life.

‘What...what’s the survival rate?’ He’s surprised to learn that he cannot speak without slurring his words.

‘The victim of cold water near drowning can be resuscitated after up to an hour underwater,’ Reid says. He’s frowning. ‘The mammalian diving reflex causes the body to shut down certain functions, allowing longer survival underwater. The person will look dead upon removal from the water.’ He’s talking about it as if it’s not his friend, not Emily laying there. As if it is just a trivial piece of statistic. His next words are a little less detached. ‘Of course, other injuries to the victim will decrease the chances of survival.’

He knows that the drugs in his veins are loosening his lips a little. He is saying things he normally wouldn’t say. Things he would have kept shut away.

‘Heart’s beating,’ says one of the paramedics. The team is not sure whether the statement of fact is for their benefit, or for the benefit of the other paramedic.

They cut away the wet clothing, replacing it with blankets. Hotch gives a slight intake of breath as he sees the blood stained bandages being removed, sees what lies beneath them. Reid’s mouth is slightly open, as if he is about to explain to the team the process of warming the body in the case of immersion hypothermia, but he is transfixed. Not on the scene before him, but on the feeling of the Fentanyl starting to take hold. He knows that the affects of Fentanyl are similar to Heroin. He also knows that Fentanyl is more addictive than Heroin.

The pain is starting to slip away.

‘We need to warm the core of the body,’ the paramedic says, and the team realizes that he is, in fact, talking to them. ‘If we warm the arms and legs, then the cold blood will go straight to the heart, sending the body into after-drop.’

‘So...’ starts Morgan. The world is dropping away, feeling fuzzy. ‘She’s alive?’

‘For now.’

He feels like laughing, and yet, at the same time, he feels like crying. He does not have the time to do either, as he finds himself sinking into a blissful unconsciousness.

*             *             *

They are finally reunited, though only half of the team have the capacity to realize it. Both Morgan and Emily are unconscious, and they can all see the look in Reid’s eyes. See the rolled-up sleeves, the prick marks in the crook of his elbow that are already starting to bruise.

Hotch, Rossi and JJ find themselves torn between staying with their injured colleagues, and searching the house. Hotch makes the executive decision; the house will still be there when they get back. If they were to search it now, they would be distracted by the impending possibility that one of the three might not make it out alive. Their friends need them now.

‘He tortured them,’ Hotch says as the first stretcher is loaded into the ambulance. It might be an obvious conclusion, but he still feels the need to express it.

Rossi nods. He knows. He knows that despite the fact that they have been rescued, it will be a long road to recovery. The physical healing will take some time, and the psychological healing will take even longer.

JJ’s on the phone to a frantic Garcia. The media liaison has had years of practice at maintaining a balance between exposition and reassurance. It is of great use here, where she must tell Garcia both that, yes, they have been found, but that none of them are in particularly healthy state.

They turn as a body bag is carried out of the house. The black plastic is illuminated by torches and headlights.

It starts with death, and it ends with death.

Snow falls gently around them.

*             *             *

When Morgan wakes, it is dark outside. He blinks slowly several times as he ascertains his surroundings.

White. White walls, white sheets, white faces of the people that stand around him. Hotch, JJ, Rossi and Garcia. The technical analyst rushes to his side instantaneously. He gets the impression that they have only been standing there a few seconds. He notices Reid, then, curled in a chair near the door, his arms wrapped around himself. His eyes are open, and he is staring blankly at the window.

He tries to open his mouth, to say something. He doesn’t know what to say.

‘Emily?’ he asks eventually. He’s scanning their faces, trying to profile their reactions. There are no sudden outbursts of tears, no carefully averted gazes, no biting of the lips. Before they say anything, he knows that it is not bad news. It isn’t good news either, but that is to be expected.

‘They say she should be fine.’ Hotch turns his head to look at the other bed in the room – the one that Morgan is only noticing just now. A nurse is adjusting the heart-rate monitor, and Morgan realizes why they had all been standing when he woke up. She’s only just been brought in here.

Hotch explains how she had been treated for the hypothermia and the broken arm. The wounds to her back will require skin grafts. There is as slightly pained expression on his face as he says it. It’s guilt, Morgan realizes. Guilt that he had let this happen to her, guilt that he had let this happen to any of them. Morgan knows. He feels the same guilt.

He nods. His eyes drift over to Reid, whose foot is tapping against the chair. Now that he’s looking closer, he notices the more subtle body language. The way his fingers grip tightly against his arm, the way he refuses to look down.

Morgan feels those pangs again.

‘You need to be a little more careful, hot stuff.’ Garcia puts a hand over his, careful not to disturb his aching fingers. ‘Your wounds got all infected.’ She’s trying to poke fun at him, to lighten the mood a little bit. It works partially. He gives her a small smile.

‘Anything for you, beautiful.’ But he doesn’t look her in the eyes. He can’t look any of them in the eyes. He does not want to see the blame reflecting back at him. He thinks his wounds – both physical and psychological – will heal without too much trouble, which is more than he can say for either Emily or Reid. The guilt is _his _curse.

Rather than running the risk of catching their reproachful glances, he looks towards the window. The dark sky beckons him. Any stars are cloaked by the clouds, the world awash with falling snowflakes. He thinks that it must be night once more.

He does not turn his head when he asks the question: ‘What time is it?’ He does not see Hotch look down at his watch.

He _does_ hear the answer, though: ‘Midnight.’

 


End file.
